


Shear Strength

by ShippersList



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Destiny, Engineer Tony Stark, Families of Choice, Fantasy, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Inspired by The Witcher, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Magic, Monsters, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Sacrificing Tony Stark, Violence, Witcher Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: As the Continent faces an unnameable threat, it will take the combined effort—and sacrifice—of dedicated people to save the very existence of the world as they know it.ORA Witcher finds his Destiny and everything changes.(Shear strength is a material's ability to resist forces that can cause the internal structure of the material to slide against itself.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, very brief Steve/Natasha
Comments: 30
Kudos: 65
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang





	1. The Path...

**Author's Note:**

> I had two lovely artists, [kakushimiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakushimiko) and [kowai youkai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai). You can check their art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292636) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456034).  
> Immense thanks to my beta, [loriedaxpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loriedapotxto), for making sure I was, in fact, writing Steve and not Geralt in Steve's clothes.
> 
> This work is a stand-alone fic but it's based on a POV Tony Whumptober fic [A Glass Cage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356596). You don't need to read it to enjoy this story. Also, information about Lovecraftian monsters isn't necessary but might tickle your fancy.

”Living is easy,” his Ma used to say. ”You just gotta keep on going, honey, no matter what.”

That was when she was still alive and trying to take care of Steve the best way she could before she caught the nasty cold that finally took her away after weeks of slow dying. Steve would’ve liked to be able to do something—anything—but he’d been too young and small. Weak. Useless.

That was when he still was Steve, the blue-eyed boy, son of Sarah.

That’s not what he is now.

* * *

There isn’t much he remembered of his Ma. Her blond hair, yes, and the lilt of her laughter. Sometimes, he’s sure he remembers the way she smelled, like fresh grass and hackberry flowers, but the memory is fleeting, gone almost as soon as he tries to reach back for it.

Steve knows better than believing in coincidences. He honestly doesn’t know how long his Ma had been planning on contacting the Witchers—or if she’d been planning it at all. But what were the odds that one just happened to come by only a couple of hours after she was gone when Steve was all alone and with nowhere to go?

She’d been sick for some time by then. Consumption, some people muttered darkly when they passed them by at the market but he’d been too small to really understand what was going on. All he knew was that his Ma was coughing, a persistent, wet cough that wracked her thin body and left her gasping for breath.

When she had better days—the kinds he remembered with downcast eyes and a ghost of a pain in his chest—they walked around the meadows, picked flowers and herbs, and she sang him softly as her nimble fingers worked on a wreath. He learned how to recognize plants that helped with pain, plants that granted better sleep, plants that gave the world an otherworldly hue for hours. She taught him all that and more, things since long forgotten.

When she had bad days, all she could do was to lie in bed, shivering and coughing. He was helpless in the face of her pain because he was too young to understand she was already as good as dead, but he still offered her bark tea and chamomile and she never failed to thank him with a smile.

”My brave boy,” she whispered on one exceptionally bad day when she’d coughed herself to exhaustion and her lips were red from blood. ”Your story isn’t over yet. You have a Destiny out there, dearest. I know it.”

”What’s Destiny?” He asked but her eyes were closed again.

As the days passed, the bad ones grew worse and she never whispered about Destiny again. All too soon, she fell silent forever, her hand growing cold and stiff in his hold but he didn’t know how to let go. He stayed by her side until his stomach growled so loud it startled him and only then did he get up and wander out to look for something to eat. There was an apple tree not far from the hut and he walked up to it, picked up a couple of apples from the ground, and started munching.

He was on his second apple when he heard heavy steps on the gravel. He turned to see an old man with long, thinning hair and kind, strange eyes in a stern face.

”You alone, boy?” The man asked, kneeling down to his level. The two swords strapped in his back cast an odd shadow on the ground and it made him shiver.

He nodded. ”My Ma died,” he said in a small voice.

”I’m sorry to hear that,” the man said in a gravelly voice. ”Where’s your father?”

Steve shrugged. ”Don’ have one. Ma said he was a bad man.”

”Hmm,” the man said with a frown and tilted his head. His eyes were bright like the copper coin Ma had given him one day and something about them seemed…dangerous. Otherworldly.

”What’s your name?” The man asked as he reached out to cup his jaw with a gnarly hand. Steve saw several thick scars running down his forearm and disappearing under the sleeve.

”Steve,” he answered.

”Well, Steve, I think you better come with me then,” the man said. He stood up and handed Steve a rough burlap sack. ”Go pick up some apples for the road.”

He picked the sack so full he couldn’t lift it anymore, then left it by the road and returned to the hut. He hesitated at the door because he didn’t want to see his Ma so cold and—

”I buried her,” the man said from behind him. ”If you wanna go say goodbye.”

Her grave was a small mound on the backyard under the rowan Ma had liked so much. Steve was quite sure Ma liked being under it now.

”I’m gonna go now, Ma,” he said and then fell silent because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He looked behind him at the stern figure of the strange man standing some distance away like a statue.

He didn’t have that many possessions to pack. Some clothes, a pair of shoes, a book that had Ma’s notes on herbs and flowers.

”Ready?” The man asked.

Steve nodded even though he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be ready for.

* * *

Kar Morhen was unlike anything he’d seen so far and would see for a good while. A foreboding fortress of black stone and narrow stairs and walls so high he felt a bit dizzy gazing upward. The man—Erskine—nudged his horse and they entered, the sound of the gate slamming shut behind them echoing in the empty courtyard.

”Are you a king?” Steve asked in a hushed whisper. ”Is this your castle?”

Erskine barked a rough laugh. ”No, boy. This is Kar Morhen, the Wolf School. This is your new home.”

He didn’t know what a school was but he knew what wolves were so he guessed it was…okay? And it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be.

Erskine showed him around, walked him through winding staircases and dimly lit corridors, pointed him toward the Great Hall, the kitchens, the hot springs, and finally, the dorms. Steve stood in the room glancing shyly at the handful of boys already occupying the bunks and sat on a free one, clutching his meager possessions on his lap.

”I’m Buck,” a thin boy about the same age or a bit older than him said from across the room. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and a mischievous grin that only grew wider when the old man sighed. ”Welcome to the madness.”

”I’m Steve,” Steve replied. ”And…thank you?”

The other boys snorted.

* * *

In the following years, he didn’t see much of the old man—Witcher, he now knew. Erskine traveled the land, following where his Path led him. Sometimes he returned alone, sometimes he brought yet another boy with him. He always had time to check in on Steve before he departed again and each time he nodded, pleased. Steve wasn’t sure what made him so pleased but he was glad anyway.

Steve lived in the dorms with the other boys, both younger and older than him. There were a couple of dozen of them, far fewer than the dorm had room for. The halls looked like they could house a lot more people and the corridors were long and dark, silent. Lonely. They trained at the courtyard and studied in the lecture halls, learned to spar and roll and feint and recognize edible plants and the kind that would kill you if you touched them. And they learned about monsters. Steve was still small and sickly, and sometimes he felt like he would die out there, wheezing his lungs out after what felt like a rigorous training session for him but what was more like light warm-up for the other boys. Buck’s eyes were worried and they all knew he probably should give up before he died but he refused to do so. Instead, he gritted his teeth and set his jaw and _willed_ his lungs to work. He got up, spat blood on the ground, and started again.

And again.

And again.

Phillips, the old, gnarly Witcher who was in charge of their training, narrowed his eyes but didn’t tell him no.

The first time he witnessed the Trial of the Grasses, he thought the school was under attack. Although ’witnessing’ was perhaps a wrong word for it, since all he heard were the screams that echoed through the hallways and seeped through the cracks in the stones. The whole keep rang with them and Steve lay wide awake in his cot, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. When it was all over, the halls were quieter than before and the wide planes behind the keep acquired new, unmarked graves.

When it was his time, he entered the chamber with his head held high and accepted the cup with steady hands and when the fire started burning him inside out, he was the last boy of his class to start screaming.

* * *

_Be honest._

_Be true._

_Stay on the Path._

_Stay out of the petty squabbles of men._

_Never force yourself on anyone unwilling, man or woman._

* * *

Before the Trials, his class had thirteen boys.

After the Trials, they were four: Steve, Buck, Dugan, and Morita.

He was chosen for additional trials—for what purpose, he would never learn. All he knew was that something about him intrigued Erskine. He took a trial after a trial, burned from the inside out and outside in and writhed in agony as his body bent and snapped and _grew_ , only to witness Erskine take an arrow through the eye as Kaer Morhen was attacked.

* * *

After the battle of Kaer Morhen, the remaining Witchers scattered. Some of them left to search for the other schools—they’d learned about the rivalling Witcher keeps after the Trials—but most of them started on their Paths, steadfast with their calling and, well, because there was nothing else to do.

They were Witchers. They’d been created to stand between the darkness and the light, warped beings to protect humanity from the worse monsters that roamed in the night. It was ungrateful work but it wasn’t like they did it for praise. The little Steve remembered of his Ma was how she always tried to do better for others, to help where she could even if it was just a gentle hand on their shoulder or soft words of comfort.

So, Steve didn’t start on his Path for honor and glory—none of them was that delusional to believe Witchers would ever achieve much more than sneers and hard-earned coin—but he stayed because it was right. He was doing what he was supposed to do. If he was lonely or wished someone would deign to thank him with more than bitter words, that was his problem. He knew that but sometimes he still wanted. It was a hollow ache in the center of his chest, just under the Wolf medallion. Sometimes he quelled that ache with tracking down a brother of his and sat down with him, sharing a drink and silent company.

And if he wished for a soft touch, he visited a whorehouse and asked for someone, _anyone_ who could spend the night with him without reeking of terror. Some foolish whores always tried to bluff it but he’d rather spend himself in his hand than fuck someone whose fear made his head hurt and his mouth taste acrid and sour. But when he managed to find someone amenable, he made them come several times before taking what he needed. It was better than nothing but even then, they only had until the madam kicked him out.

But it was fine. He was a Witcher. Witchers didn’t need anyone or anything.

And yet, he did. He just didn’t know what.

* * *

”Morita’s dead,” Phillips said gruffly when Steve guided his horse inside the gates.

”And hello to you, too,” Steve said dryly as he slid down and patted Spot’s flank. He’d pushed her hard to make it into the keep before they’d be snowed in and she was breathing hard.

”Don’t get cute, boy,” Phillips said but clasped him on the shoulder anyway. ”I’ll warm you some stew.” Without another word, he turned to walk inside, limping slightly. He’d broken his hip in the battle for the school and it had never healed right but the old Witcher never complained. The keep was no longer fit to school new Witchers but since all knowledge had been lost there wouldn’t be any more anyway, but the old wolf was devoted to this place. He’d take care of Kaer Morhen until the day he died.

Steve hoped that day was far, far ahead.

Spot whinnied and bit at his pauldron, offended when being ignored for this long. Steve rolled his eyes and patted her, then led her to the stables. They, too, were nearly abandoned, meant for a much larger number of horses than Spot and Phillip’s Bunny. The old wolf’s horse was just as old and gnarly as the Witcher himself and greeted Spot in his usual soft whinny. Spot ignored him.

”You did good, girl,” Steve said as he took off her saddle and bridle, then gave her a good rubbing. ”I’ll get you something nice from the kitchen, okay?” He patted her, fastened on the thick blanket, and gave her a good portion of oats. Her taken care of, he grabbed her saddle and saddlebags and made it inside.

Winter was a time for rest and recuperation, a chance to mend his gear and update his knowledge of some new lore Phillips had dug up during the year. And sometimes, it was a time for remembering those who were no longer with them.

”What happened?” He asked after polishing two bowls of thick, hot stew.

Phillips grunted. ”I sent him to check on a weird striga infestation. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle alone.” He shook his head and frowned. ”There’s something brewing in the southeast and I don’t like it.”

Steve took a long pull of his ale. It was cold, strong, and bitter, just the way he liked it. ”What do you mean?”

Phillips leaned his forearms on the table and gave him a piercing look. ”I’ve heard rumors of a rogue sorcerer doing experiments. Striga in a place where they shouldn’t be. Acting like a striga shouldn’t. So, I sent Morita.” He grimaces. ”Two months later I got word that a Witcher was found gutted in a ditch.”

Steve frowned. ”That’s not—”

”—what strigas do, I know,” Phillips growled. ”Something’s brewing in there. I don’t know what and it’s driving me up the walls.”

”Spot needs at least a couple of days,” Steve said.

”Yeah,” Phillips agreed. ”I never really get it why you named your horse after a dog all those years ago.”

Steve snorted. ”Says the Witcher with a horse named Bunny.” The familiar banter soothed the ache in his chest. Yet another brother lost, and so few left.

Phillips rolled his eyes at him before getting up. He dug around a stuffed cabinet for a moment, returning to the table with two small glasses and a dusty bottle with clear, thick liquid inside. He poured them both and raised his glass. ”To Morita,” he said and downed the drink at one go.

”To old friends,” Steve echoed. The familiar taste of juniper berry vodka burned on the way down and settled in his stomach like burning embers.

* * *

It started snowing heavily in the night and the storm didn’t let up until two weeks later. By then, the pass was unbreachable and the keep closed off from the rest of the world. Steve and Phillips spent the time working on reparations the old Wolf couldn’t manage on his own, both deep in their thoughts. Steve saw how Phillips’ eyes scanned the empty halls and something wistful glimmered in his eyes. He wondered how lonely the keep must seem like now.

He wondered if it would ever see more life.

He couldn’t quite imagine what the school had been like centuries ago when the dorms were full of trainees and the halls rang with hundreds of voices. What would it take to fill the keep again?

It took until spring for Steve to finally start heading to southeast toward the region Phillips had told him about. Winter had been hard this year for both monsters and people alike and there was a significant shortage of contracts. Instead of drowners and ghouls, there were flooded fields and broken bridges and he decided to help out every now and then. Mostly, it was for his own benefit—it was far more pleasant to cross a river on a bridge than swimming across—but he also did it because, well, it was the right thing to do. Usually, people weren’t quite sure how to react to a Witcher helping them out but they at least tolerated him and sometimes, even shared a meal with him.

The further he traveled, the surlier the people got. When he finally crossed the border to the remote barony of Sokovy, he could smell the sheer wrongness in the air. Something—no, some _one_ was rotting the land, warping it to do their bidding and making everything sick in the process. The barony was a wretched place to begin with; a poor, rural area with practically nothing to offer and barely enough to get by. The peasants he passed on his way were sullen and suspicious, watching him with wary eyes and spitting on the ground when he and Spot rode by.

The main road to the small town was empty and when he reached the town hall, he saw the noticeboard empty. Considering the area was supposed to be raided by monsters on an almost daily basis, the lack of available contracts was suspicious. He decided to stop by the inn anyway, if only to get something to drink. The weather was as wretched as the town, grey with sleet that hammered down on him and made him miserable but he wasn’t sure the townspeople would stretch their hospitality on him.

”We have no need for your kind here,” the innkeeper hissed as soon he stepped in.

Steve nodded, taking in the hostility in the room. ”Saw your noticeboard was empty,” he said, not unkindly. ”So I take the striga problem was taken care of.”

Something ugly flashed in the innkeepers eyes but she ducked her head to hide her face. ”Our Lord takes good care of us,” she said curtly. ”So you can be on your way, Witcher.”

”Can I have an ale before I go?”

The innkeeper bared her teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile. ”No.”

”I see,” Steve said, drawing his lips in a grim smile. ”Good day to you then.” He felt the stares burning in his back as he turned and walked out, more than happy to leave this sorry excuse of a town behind. Perhaps he could find the answers he was looking for in the forest surrounding the town.

He felt something watching him as he rode out, an oppressing, burning weight in the nape of his neck. It was hostile and fascinated at the same time and it held the same warped wrongness as the very air of the area. Careful, he cast his senses wide, trying to catch what exactly was following him. He found nothing.

A mage, then. Or at least a magic user if they were able to mask their presence from a Witcher.

On a hunch, he steered Spot away from the road and into the forest. It was lush and green but in an overbearing, suffocating way. Almost like the foliage was desperately trying to escape, to grow _away_ from whatever power lurked in the shadows and forever failing. Something was very, very wrong and regardless of what the townspeople thought, he needed to make sure it didn’t hurt more people.

Barely a couple of dozen steps from the road, the woods closed in on him and so did the silence so pressing he was having trouble even making out Spot’s steps. The mare whinnied and shook her head, annoyed and on the edge. He leaned forward to pat her neck to calm her down when—

”You shouldn’t have come, Witcher,” a low, musical voice said from his right.

He turned his head sharply but there was nothing there.

”We killed the last Witcher who came in snooping.” This time, the voice was on his left, lilting, mocking him.

Steve straightened up and stilled, rested his hands on his thighs, and closed his eyes. The voice seemed incorporeal but he sensed something hovering around, just out of his reach.

”Or perhaps we should keep you as a pet?” Behind him now.

He didn’t move, just waited, honing in on the presence taunting him. In his mind, it danced like red smoke, swirling in a maddening spiral.

”You would make such a pretty pet.”

_There!_

Without bothering to open his eyes, he shot the presence with _Aard_ and jumped from the saddle. He landed at the same time as something hit the ground with a satisfying thump and he was on it in an instant, holding his silver sword on—a woman. A young witch with magic swirling around her in a cloying red cloud, her eyes mad with it, and so powerful he could _taste_ her on his tongue.

On her throat, a pendant pulsed with sickly yellowish mist trapped inside a small glass bulb, swirling in an agitated spiral and vibrating with power. It was the same, twisted magic that had warped the woods. Without asking, he knew what it was: a soul container, an enchanted pendant to trap someone’s very life essence to harness its power. He’d seen one a long time ago and that hadn’t been good news either. According to the lore, they tended to drive their carrier insane.

She seemed to be well on her way.

He yanked the pendant from her neck, dropped it on the ground, and smashed it with the pommel of his sword. The witch let out an anguished cry as the mist surged up like a bird taking flight and then dissipated, taking the oppressive silence with it and leaving behind a quiet like the forest was holding its breath.

”What have you done?” The witch wailed, her eyes wide and furious. ”What have you _done?”_ Her voice gathered power as she stood slowly up, and as her question rose to a shout, her power lashed out hitting him hard enough to throw him several feet and against a tree.

”You know it wasn’t right,” he gritted out. ”Holding on to someone who is supposed to move on is wrong. You know that—”

_”No!”_ She screamed, her face distorted with hatred. ”You had no right,” she snarled. ”You had no right to take my brother. You had no right!” Her eyes started glowing red and the air around her started shimmering.

It was barely enough warning to cast _Quen_ in front of him and then he was blasted with sheer rage. Even shielded, her power hit him like a hammer and he gritted his teeth, holding on to the shield with pure stubbornness. She was perhaps the strongest witch he’d ever come across and her powers were amplified by her hurt. He had no idea how long she’d been holding on to the trapped soul of her brother but if the magical sickness was anything to go by, it had been more than long enough.

When she started to wilt, Steve forced himself to move forward, still holding on his _Quen_. ”Are you done?” He asked. ”Or do I really have to kill you?”

The witch bared her teeth and hissed, twisted her wrist, and hurled a tree branch at him. He let go of his shield as he deflected, smacking her with the side of his sword, sending her sprawling on the ground. She retaliated with a boulder. Nice.

It went on like that for an impressively long time. He was determined and she was driven by grief-fuelled rage and showed no sign of giving up. When he finally reached the end of his patience, he managed to crowd her against a tree with several well-placed _Aard_ and his hand on her throat.

”Stop it, witch,” he growled, adding just enough pressure to make her claw at his arm. ”Let it go or I’ll end you.”

The defiance in her eyes didn’t change as she gasped for breath and he squeezed more. Perhaps she would finally give up when she fainted from the lack of air? As on cue, her eyes rolled over and she went limp.

”About fucking time,” Steve muttered and eased his hold, gently setting her back on her feet.

The witch drew a rattling breath and her eyelids fluttered open. Instead of being filled with rage, they were vacant, unseeing. ”The genius in the bottle is waiting for you,” she whispered as red mist swirled around her hands, still gripping Steve’s forearm.

He paused, taken aback. ”What?”

The witch blinked and her eyes were clear again. With a final scream and surge of power, she hurled him across the clearing and he hit a tree with a painful crack on the back of his head that left him stunned. By the time he was back on his feet, the witch was long gone.

Scowling, he gathered his swords and made his way back to Spot. Had that been a genuine premonition? _A Djinn? What the fuck does a Djinn have to do with anything?_

Spot gave his muttering a judging snort but trotted forward at his prompt anyway. He had no idea where the witch had ran off to but he still had the matter of the Duke of Sokovy to deal with. He hadn’t forgotten about the look on the innkeeper’s face when she’d mentioned their Lord. He generally didn’t meddle with humanity and especially the petty games of nobility, but this was something he needed to settle. He wanted to find out if the Duke was the one to blame for the witch’s insanity or if he was another victim to her warped grief.

The tainted magic swirled around him as he moved forward, following his instincts and the increasing humming of his medallion. It didn’t take him long to reach the road again—although this road seemed…wrong—and when he made it up the hill, he saw the castle in the valley below. It was a sprawling building that looked more like a troll had vomited rocks in a pile than someone actually building it on purpose. It looked ominous and Steve felt his hackles stand up.

No-one came to greet him as he entered the courtyard but he felt eyes on him the whole way.He dismounted and pretended to check Spot’s reins as he took a look around, checking for, well, anything. The whole place seemed abandoned if not for the lanterns in three windows.

”Well, I guess I have to go check,” he said to Spot who neighed and brushed his temple with her nose. ”Stay alert.”

The foyer was empty when he pushed the front door open and entered. The place smelled dusty and stale, as if it had been abandoned years ago. The grand staircase in front of him was covered in a deep scarlet rug, looking like a river of blood pouring down from the second story. His eyes tracked the curving baluster and—stopped on a man standing at the top of the stairs.

”Baron von Strucker?” Steve asked. The man didn’t respond. ”I’m looking for a witch. She’s young and wields—”

”So, it was a Witcher who broke the spell,” the Baron interrupted. ”Shame.” His voice was nasal and reedy, cold in its indifference. ”It is of no matter. The Scarlet Witch has done her job.”

”Which is?”

”Grant me immortality, of course,” the Baron sneered down his nose. ”Although I don’t suppose an animal like you would understand.”

”Of course not,” Steve said dryly and started climbing the stairs.

”I shall govern this land until the end of time,” the Baron intoned, splaying his hands wide. ”It shall serve me and nourish me, grant me life eternal! All shall perish before me until only I am left!”

”There’s only one thing I’m wondering,” Steve said conversationally, now halfway up.

”And what is that?” the Baron asked haughtily.

Steve stopped three steps from the Baron and cocked his head. ”If everyone’s gone, who’s left to serve you?”

The Baron blinked and frowned. ”I beg your pardon?” He asked, genuinely confused. And then a look of pure shock froze on his face as Steve leapt forward and in a flash, took his head off.

”Steel for humans, silver for monsters,” he said, wiping the silver blade on the Baron’s grey doublet.

The building around him trembled and groaned as if in pain. He didn’t waste time but ran down the stairs and out of the door, leapt in Spot’s saddle. He didn’t have to urge the mare on as she could hear the rumbling well enough. They sped across the courtyard and out of the gate, not slowing down until they reached the hilltop. As Steve slowed Spot down and turned around, he saw murky reddish black tentacles of swirling smoke reach out of the woods surrounding the castle and tear into it. It was violent and over in a short moment, and when the smoke cleared, nothing was left of Baron von Strucker’s castle.

”Well,” Steve said slowly.

He wrote a letter to Phillips from two towns over, narrating the events as best as he could. The whole encounter had left him uneasy and with a sense of impending doom he couldn’t quite articulate. He didn’t feel like he’d solved anything even though the pendant and the Baron were gone.

Something was still very, very wrong.

* * *

He was hunting a griffin when he met Natasha for the first time, although it would take quite a long while until he learned her name.

He’d picked up the contract on a small village that had misery and fear hanging low over it like a cloud. They’d lost livestock and people and with the winter closing in, they were desperate to plead help from a Witcher.

”When was the last time you saw it?” Steve asked. ”And where?”

”It’s in the hill beyond the forest,” the tired-looking alderman said. ”Haven’t been exactly seekin’ it out.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder at the thick forest. ”I’ll need to leave my horse here,” he said. ”Don’t get too close to her. She pretends to be friendly but she’ll bite.” She actually didn’t but for a horse, she had a peculiar sense of humor.

As on cue, Spot showed her teeth and then snorted as the alderman took a step back. Steve ignored them both and rummaged his bags for a couple of potions he tucked to his belt. Then he patted Spot’s side, nodded at the alderman and the handful of thin, weary villagers looking on, and headed out.

It didn’t take him long to cross the woods and arrive at the bottom of the rocky hill. He scanned the area, took in the scratches on the ground and the snapped trees. Something was slightly off but until he examined further, he couldn’t be sure. He downed his potions and started climbing.

When he pulled himself up to the ledge that led to a cave, he frowned. The monster should be here by now or, if it was away, he should’ve either sensed or heard it. But there was nothing. Not even the distinct, pungent smell of the beast. Careful, he inched closer to the cave, stopping by the opening, holding his silver sword ready.

”There’s really no need for that,” a throaty female voice called out, amused. ”It’s quite dead and silver won’t work on me anyway.”

Slowly, Steve took a couple of steps to bring himself to the mouth of the cave, close enough to attack but far enough to dive for cover, if need be, and waited.

”Hello, Witcher,” the woman purred and walked unhurriedly to him. She was tiny, with long, flaming red hair, brilliant green eyes, and a sensual gait in her step that reminded him of a prowling cat. ”It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of you.”

”We’re few and far in between,” Steve said. He glanced behind her and saw the griffin’s carcass in a pile at the back of the cave. ”I see you took care of the monster problem,” he said with a nod.

”Huh? Oh, that.” She shrugged and cocked her head. ”It interfered with my business so I disposed of it.”

”Really? Just like that?”

She pursed her lips. ”It was but a small griffin.”

To Steve, it looked like a mature griffin but he guessed contradicting her wouldn’t be a wise thing to do. So, instead he said, ”Do you need help with carrying the head back to the village?”

She snorted. ”Why would I do that? I have no need for the townspeople’s coin. I already got what I wanted and I’m more than happy to be on my way.” She prowled closer to him, showing no unease at his black eyes and pale skin. ”I’d love to stay and…chat but I’m afraid I don’t have the time.” Then she reached out with both of her hands, cupped Steve’s cheeks and kissed him. It was unlike any kiss he’d had before, a passionate and demanding kiss, full of need and fire. The contact sang through him like lightning, buckling his knees and making his head swim. When she finally let him go, he swayed like he was drunk, gasping for breath.

”Until the next time, Witcher,” the woman said as he was still blinking his eyes, trying to clear his head. By the time he looked up, she was gone.

Feeling out of sorts, he hacked the griffin’s head off and made his way back to the village. He refused the coin the alderman tried to offer him with a shaky hand, mounted Spot, and left. He didn’t realize until much later that his eyes were still black.

* * *

”Perhaps you should just get laid,” Buck interrupted his narration from the other side of the fire. The night was cool, the stars were out, and their bellies were full of roasted pheasant. It was a good feeling. ”I mean, first the scarlet witch and now this red-haired sorceress or whatever? I tell you, you have a type.” He was lazily flipping his dagger, barely bothering to keep an eye on the spinning blade. ”Crazy women in red. Not perhaps the best look on you.”

Steve rolled his eyes and tossed an apple at Buck who flicked the dagger at it, slicing it in half in the air. ”Showoff,” Steve said.

Buck grinned, his teeth white and sharp. ”But seriously. Get laid.”

Steve grunted and stared into the fire. Crossing Paths with Buck had been a happy coincidence but he could do with less teasing. ”Don’t really feel like it,” he muttered.

”Why not? If you don’t have the coin, I’ll help you out. Get yourself a pretty whore or two and fuck the funk out of your system. Or get fucked, I don’t care.” There was a challenging glint in Buck’s eyes.

”It’s not that,” Steve said. ”I just…” his voice trailed away, wistful. Which was a mistake, he realized.

”Ohhhh…” Buck gasped, his hand theatrically on his chest. ”The great Captain is a romantic?”

”I’ve told you not to call me that,” he growled and stood up to get away from Buck’s knowing eyes.

One time. One time when he hadn’t hunted monsters but had helped to save a village from a flood instead, guiding the people away from danger and keeping them all alive. It had earned him the moniker Captain, to the eternal mirth of his brothers.

”The Captain wants his own sweetheart,” Buck cooed. ”A fine lady or a lad to have and to hold, preferably several times a day, am I right?”

”Fuck you.”

Buck pursed his lips, thoughtful, and then shook his head. ”Nah. I like my partners smaller than me. Helps to stave off unnecessary insecurities.” He took a bit of the apple and tossed the other half to Steve. ”Although it’s not the size, it’s the way one uses it,” he added with a waggle of his brows.

Despite himself, Steve snorted. He sat on the log next to Buck and shoved him with his shoulder a bit. Buck shoved back.

It escalated into a brawl but that’s how their meetings always went.

* * *

The second time he met Natasha, they were at Queen Maria’s court in Broklen. He’d taken care of a doppler infiltration right there in the palace and as a thank you, the Queen had invited him to the ball. Joy. Although he had to admit that if he had to attend a ball at any court, he’d rather it be the Broklen one. The kingdom was relatively small but it held one of the most prominent academies for obscure arts and was the unofficial headquarters for a Continent-wide network of, well, spies.

He prowled the great hall, trying to keep in the shadows but knowing his size and scowl would give him away no matter how he dressed. The midnight blue doublet felt constricting and itchy even though it was soft and expertly tailored and his back felt naked without his swords.

”Steve!” A surprised voice called out behind him. He turned to see a middle-aged man in nondescript clothes and a genuine smile which both hid steel underneath.

”Master Coulson,” Steve greeted, clasping the man’s arm. ”It’s been too long. How are things?”

The head of the palace guard shrugged slightly. ”The same,” he said. ”Things never really change, do they?”

”For people like us? No, they don’t.”

This was a familiar dance. Steve was a Witcher and Master Coulson had elven blood in him, which made him practically immortal just like Steve. They’d first met when Steve had taken up a contract as usual and had ended up disbanding a wyvern nest that held oddly mutated younglings and Master Coulson had been the one paying him. He’d somehow ended up taking up several more contracts that had Master Coulson in the shadows in one way or the other and over the years, they’d formed a friendship based on mutual respect and the need to protect humanity.

”How is your…how did you put it, ’unhealthy habit’?” Steve asked.

Master Coulson’s lips twitched. ”Do you mean my eldritch poetry collection or my choice of companion?”

Steve grinned. ”Either.”

Master Coulson heaved a sigh. ”In one word: taxing. Taking up much of my time. Will probably prove far more important than I could ever imagine.”

Steve heard the underlying warning and was about to ask more when Master Coulson’s brow rose just a twitch.

”Lady Natasha,” he said and bowed.

Steve turned around to meet familiar and amused green eyes.

”Hello again, Witcher,” the woman, Lady Natasha, said. Her voice was exactly as he remembered. This time, her flaming red hair was coiffed on top of her head in an elaborate hairdo and she was wearing a very daring black gown.

”Lady Natasha,” Steve said, not quite sure where to set his gaze so he decided on just a little over her left shoulder.

”Dance with me,” she said and laid her hand on his arm.

”I don’t—” he started but she was surprisingly strong and dragged him to the dance floor. They stayed to the side but the other dancers still gave them a wide berth, whispering to themselves.

”Court life is so very dull,” she murmured as they slowly swayed to the music. ”Tell me, when was the last time you fucked someone who wasn’t afraid of you at all?”

He nearly tripped and gave her a wide-eyed stare.

”Because I have a proposition. I’m bored and you hate being here. I have a room with a big bed and thick walls, so how about I take you there and you try your hardest to make me scream until I’m hoarse.” She looked at him from under her lashes and gave him a coy smile. ”Deal?”

Steve swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. ”Yeah— Yes. I think I can do that.”

She laughed, her eyes twinkling and her lips red like blood, and led him off the dance floor.

* * *

The third time he met Natasha…well, then they pretty much went straight to fucking but there was also the plot to kidnap and kill Queen Maria’s niece, which they took care of before they went back to fucking. After, when she’d wrung him dry and sated, she curled to his side, drawing idle circles on his chest.

”This isn’t going to work,” she said calmly, tracing the raised white scar that ran along his lowest ribs.

”I know,” he said. ”I’m sorry.”

She raised her head and gave him an incredulous look. ”What for? We might not be star-crossed lovers but the sex is nothing to be sorry about.”

”No…I meant, I’m sorry I can’t be what you’re looking for.”

”Oh, Steve,” she sighed and pecked a kiss on his chest. ”For a Witcher, you’re a hopeless romantic.”

”Why do people keep saying that?” He grumbled.

Natasha’s lips drew into a wry smile. ”Because it’s true. Besides…” her eyes went vacant as she reached across the veil for something. She was silent for a long moment and then blinked and shook her head a bit. ”There’s someone waiting for you.”

”My Destiny,” Steve muttered.

”Yes. I can’t see who or where or when but they are there. You just have to keep looking.”

* * *

And that’s what he’s been doing ever since. He hasn’t seen Natasha for over a decade and the Path has been rough lately. But there’s a feeling inside his chest that has been slowly gaining strength, morphing from a barely noticeable twinge to an uncomfortable tugging. It seems to guide him toward something but since so far it has led him from one sorry village to another, he has no idea where he’s supposed to end up to.

”Living is easy,” he mutters, echoing his Ma’s words. ”You just gotta keep on going, no matter what.”

He sighs and pokes the fire with a stick, staring at the embers, overcome by a sudden bout of nostalgia. He doesn’t even know if the village he grew up in is still there. Probably not; it’s been over a century and the place was never that much to begin with. And what if it _is_ still there? He wouldn’t be welcome anyway. And why is he being so morose lately? Buck would say it’s because he hasn’t gotten laid but that doesn’t count because that’s Buck’s default answer to anything.

The weather is crisp with the sharp smell of frost in the air. It’s not yet winter but it’s getting there, slowly but surely. Steve sniffs and shrugs his shoulders, adjusting the stiffness on his left rotator, courtesy by a particularly stubborn drowner. He’s low on coin, as the last contracts only paid in food and a hay pallet to sleep on, and he’d like to get a decent night in a bed sometime soon. He doesn’t blame the villagers: rumours of war and unnameable horrors circle everywhere and people are scared. Scared people make scared villages and scared villages turn inwards. It’s natural.

It doesn’t make the stones hurt any less when they hit him in the back, though.

He sighs and settles on his bedroll to meditate. Sleep has been elusive lately and he has a feeling it wouldn’t come tonight either so he doesn’t even bother trying. He grants Spot a couple of hours of rest and then he’ll push forward. His new Spot is feisty and doesn’t keep her opinions to herself, a lesson Steve has learned the hard way. Force her move before she’s gotten enough sleep and you’ll risk your extremities. But he knows that as soon as they reach an understanding, she’ll be a formidable ally.

The next day, when he comes upon a fork on the road, he closes his eyes and lets himself feel. The feeling in his chest tugs to the right so he sighs and nudges Spot to take the right turn.

”I don’t know why I’m entertaining this…whatever this is,” he says. ”But it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

Spot neighs and walks on.

After a couple of hours, he dismounts and walks beside his horse, giving her a bit of rest. He doesn’t bother stopping, just takes a couple of pulls of his canteen and eats a toughened string of jerky. The pull in his chest is still there, so, onward it is.

They enter a village when the sun is hanging low over the treetops. It’s a slightly bigger place than the ones they’d passed earlier that week but still nothing to boast about. He finds an inn that looks promising enough—they have a decent stable at least—and enters. It’s full but not stuffed, surprisingly clean and with an actual bard singing on the background. Steve nods at the patrons giving him a wide-eyed stare and walks to the innkeeper.

”Any rooms available?”

The innkeeper gives him an assessing look and nods. ”Aye. And if ye’r lookin’ for jobs, we hav’em.”

Steve nods. ”Thank you. I’ll get to it first thing in the morning. Any chance for a bath?”

The innkeeper names his price and Steve accepts, asking for an ale and a bowl of stew as he waits for the bath to be drawn and then retreats to a corner. Some of the patrons give him dirty looks but they’re too preoccupied with the bard to concentrate on him. It’s a she, with long, flowing brown hair, sparkling eyes, quick smile, and way too much cleavage that’s either safe or sane. Steve hopes there won’t be any problems because he’s frankly too tired to deal with the petty squabbles of horny drunks.

He eats his stew and drinks his ale, the tugging in his chest oddly calm as he waits the innkeeper to inform him his bath is ready. The noise gets steadily louder and he winces at the raucous laughter and shrieks the bard seems to be in the center of.

He’s ready to leave when he sees the bard make her way to him and he sighs.

”So, honest opinion, three words or less?” She breathes with a bright grin.

Steve tilts his head and looks up. ”Too much cleavage,” he says.

”What?”

He sighs and leans forward. ”Your voice is good and your grasp on the lute is pretty impressive. But you dress like a whore. If you want people to take you seriously, you might want to consider covering up a bit.”

She stares at him for a moment. ”I always thought you Witchers were supposed to be unbiased. Didn’t peg you for a misogynistic asshole.”

”Pointing out things that might get you into trouble in a world where most men look at women dressed as you as free game—”

”Is still misogynistic bullshit,” she concludes and promptly sits down.

He rubs a hand over his face. ”Can I help you with something?”

A wide smile spreads on her face. ”Now that you ask, can I accompany you on your journey? Second-hand information is so inaccurate and singing about someone else’s adventures gets tired pretty soon. If I want to make it to the hall of fame in Oxenfurt, I have to have something special. Something extraordinary. Something—”

”No,” he says and gets up, gathering up his things.

”Aww, don’t be like that! I’ll be a totally harmless traveling companion. I even have my own horse! You won’t even know I’m there.”

”Still a no,” he says and starts climbing up the stairs.

”You’re depriving the world from the truth!” She calls and yes, that’s the sound of her hurrying after him.

”The world can’t handle the truth,” he says, opens his door, and turns to close it except that her foot is in the way. ”Would you mind?” He says.

”Not at all!” She chirps and darts in. ”I’m Darcy, by the way.”

Steve sighs.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Steve realizes he has somehow acquired a bard.

What the fuck.

* * *

The pulling in his chest had lessened a bit after he found Darcy but now it’s back, more insistent, urgent, almost frantic. It tugs him forward with a force that almost gets him to stumble and he scowls because yes, fine, Destiny is one thing but pushing him to his nose? Really?

”So, where are we going?” Darcy asks. She’s strumming her lute while she sits in the saddle with her left leg crossed in front of her. He has no idea how she manages to do that and play and wave her hand around without falling off of her horse but it’s one of the things she’s surprisingly adept at. Her gelding seems to be used to her antics and ignores her.

”Forward,” he says.

”Ha hardy ha,” she says. ”You’re hilarious, as always. Seriously, though, how do you know where we’re going?”

”I don’t.” He keeps silent for a moment and then relents. ”I usually just walk where the Path takes me.”

”But I wanted to turn right the last time and you said no.”

Steve shrugs. ”The Path didn’t go that way.”

”But _howww?”_ Darcy whines, slumping theatrically against Blueberry’s neck and then gasps, ”Ohh, perhaps it’s Destiny!” She pulls herself back up, a now-familiar faraway look in her eyes, and starts strumming her lute.

Steve shivers but she doesn’t see it.

* * *

For all her riding skills, Darcy has zero self-preservation skills which somehow still doesn’t mean she’s unable to defend herself. She runs headlong into things she finds interesting, butts in on conversations a bard—let alone a woman—should have no interest in, and has absolutely no patience for men who ogle at her for too long. She also lets Steve know she’s had less unsolicited attention lately to which Steve deadpans, ”I wonder why.”

So, yes, she knows how to take care of herself but since taking care of herself often includes getting into fights, they tend to vacate the villages rather sooner than later. Steve would like to have a decent night’s sleep in a bed every once in a while but since the tugging in his chest is getting more insistent by the day, he doesn’t protest.

Much.

”You do realize your life would be a lot easier if your neckline wasn’t as…plunging as it is?” Steve asks one day, exasperated and tired. He had a bath waiting for him but since Darcy took a knife to a local nobleman’s private parts, they’re leaving.

Darcy scoffs. ”You being paternally concerned about my womanly curves doesn’t make your comment any less misogynistic,” she says haughtily. ”Just because a woman—or a man, I’m not judging—chooses to dress provocatively, doesn’t mean they’re free game for uncouth morons. Even with whores, who actually sell their bodies for pleasure, you have to agree on the terms before getting it on. Because if you don’t it’s rape.”

”I know that,” Steve reminds her and then adds a halting, ”And I apologize for ever making you feel uncomfortable.”

She rolls her eyes. ”Uncomfortable, not as such. You just kinda act like my father—if my father ever was interested in my wellbeing, that is.”

”Um,” Steve says.

She waves her hand. ”Never mind that. I know I have nothing to fear from you Witchers. It’s the humans that piss me off.”

Steve’s mind blanks at her comment. _Nothing to fear from you Witchers,_ she says and…that sentence makes no sense. Normal humans fear Witchers as they should. And yet…

They ride on, Darcy’s chatter a surprisingly relaxing background noise and the tugging in his chest a constant reminder of where to go.

* * *

Steve feels it the moment he sees the town on the horizon. _This_ is where he’s been heading the whole time, _this_ is what he’s been looking for. He almost kicks Spot to a trot but reins himself in. No point in rushing into things he knows nothing about. Just because his Destiny is in that town, doesn’t mean it’s safe.

It takes them a couple of hours to reach the gates and by then, Steve feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin and some of it bleeds to Spot, who tosses her head and prances a bit. Darcy is babbling and gesticulating wildly and Blueberry ignores her, as usual. The town is nothing special as such; a relatively wealthy place by the looks of it, with cobblestoned main street and well-kept houses. He feels…not dizzy but not exactly present, either, and lets Spot find her way through the streets. She’s proven to be quite adept at finding a suitable inn and he trusts her to do that now, too.

”So, O-mighty-witcher, where should we stay?” Darcy asks in a sing-song voice. ”Preferably at someplace nicer than the last time—I don’t mind stabbing people who get too close to me but I’d prefer a little less stabbing? I mean, obviously I know how stabbing works—the pointy end goes to the other guy, but really, it’s just so _messy_. And—”

”Darcy,” Steve says. ”No stabbing.”

”But what if—”

”No. Stabbing.” He gives her a stern look.

Darcy makes a face. ”Fine. But you deal with the over-enthusiastic listeners, then.”

”Fine,” Steve says.

Spot comes to a stop in front of a cozy-looking inn and trusting his mare, Steve takes Spot and Blueberry to the stables while Darcy goes inside to secure them a room. It’s a habit they’ve picked up: people are much more willing to give a room to a bard who just happens to travel with a Witcher than a single Witcher. So far, it’s worked to their advantage and this inn isn’t an exception.

There’s something…calling out for him somewhere in the town and after a couple of words to Darcy, he leaves her to her negotiations and turns to follow the tug in his chest. He keeps an absent-minded track of where he’s going but since it’s a deeply ingrained habit—almost like breathing—he doesn’t need to think about it as he winds the streets and alleys. Some people he passes give him dark looks, some whisper, and some jump out of his way but it’s nothing new. At least they’re not spitting at him or throwing rocks this time.

He has no idea how long he wanders but he eventually ends up outside a shop. Through the dusty window, it’s slightly eccentric-looking, heaps of odd gadgets and strange devices on piles of leather-bound books. The sign merely says ”The Workshop,” which is in no way helpful. The place gives out a sense of adventure and mystery—or it probably would to someone who isn’t a Witcher.

Curious, he pushes the door open, raising a brow at the cheery dingle the bell above the door makes. From the inside, the shop seems oddly dimmer, almost like the window was glamoured and stepping in gave way to the truth. The place is still filled with books and devices Steve doesn’t know but it feels sadder, almost like it’s been neglected for some time. He cocks his head as he slowly walks around, trying to catch an elusive feeling of…of—

”Anything I can help you with?” A bald shopkeeper asks with a jovial smile and his hands clasped behind his back. If it wasn’t for the way his cold eyes track his swords, Steve might’ve taken him as just another harmless shopkeep.

”Just looking,” Steve says as his medallion starts to hum.

”Sure, sure,” the man agrees with a couple of nods, and then says with a shrewd look. ”Not sure what my meager shop can offer to a Witcher, though.”

Steve hums and continues looking, inwardly making a face when the shopkeeper’s eyes latch on a woman young enough to be his daughter passing the store. Then he turns around the aisle and forgets about the shopkeeper’s hungry eyes as he feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

On the shelf in front of him rests a fist-sized glass ball set on a small wooden pedestal. Inside the ball stands a tiny red-and-gold figurine surrounded by white flakes. The strange pulling in his chest sings out like a chord and for a moment, it’s hard to breathe.

As he stares with widened eyes, barely registering the shopkeeper’s narrowed gaze, the figurine _moves._ It’s barely perceptible and for anyone but a Witcher, it would seem still as a statue. But not to Steve.

”It moved,” he murmurs.

”What?” The shopkeeper barks, closer than he was just a moment ago. His scent spikes and burns Steve’s nose as he snatches the globe and shakes it so violently that for a moment, Steve’s sure the globe fill fly to the wall and smash to pieces. Inside the globe, the red-and-gold figurine disappears into a white flurry of what looks like snow.

”It’s a snow globe,” the shopkeeper snorts. ”It doesn’t move, I’m sure of it.”

Steve narrows his eyes, takes in the man and his aggressive posture, and decides it’s better to leave. ”Hmm,” he says, takes one last, sweeping look around the shop, and steps out.

The door barely closes behind him when his enhanced hearing picks up a snarled, _”I don’t know what you did, but you can be sure you’ll never have the chance to do it again.”_ Then something heavy rolls on a wooden surface and hits something metallic, then _”Enjoy the rest of your life,”_ before a drawer is slammed shut.

Steve grits his teeth as something hot and angry surges inside him, almost enough to make him turn around and storm back into the shop.

But that wouldn’t do any good.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, centres himself, and decides he needs more information.

* * *

It doesn’t take him long to find the Town Hall. People are surprisingly helpful when faced with a scowling Witcher. At the Hall, he’s quickly directed to a second floor office that has a plaque of ”Archives” nailed on the door.

”I’d like to know more about a shop,” Steve says to the archivist sitting behind a large wooden desk filled with books and quills. She’s a stern woman wearing a slightly pinched look that morphs into bewilderment as Steve states his query.

”Ah,” the archivist says, swallows, and gives him an overtly bright smile. ”Which shop would that be? And, if I may, what for?”

”The Workshop.”

”Which one?”

Steve raises a brow. ”Are there more shops named The Workshop?”

The archivist stills and a dark look crosses her eyes. ”Oh. That Workshop,” she says flatly. ”Are you here to take care of the owner?”

”Uh, no. He’s human.”

”Pity,” she sighs. ”Obadiah Stane is…well.” She gives Steve a tight smile that barely twitches her lips and leafs through a thick volume filled with row after row neatly scripted text.

”The Workshop used to belong to the Starks. Brilliant inventors, not so brilliant with people. Howard founded the place and built up its reputation. He had a habit of drinking too much and ending up in the wrong bedrooms so he…” the archivist coughs, ”Faced an untimely death. His only son, Anthony, inherited the place.

”He was classically trained in Oxenfurt in engineering, alchemy, potions, history, literature, poetry, mathematics—although he got himself expelled from the classes because he corrected the professor too many times. He returned home after his father passed away.”

”So, where is he now?” Steve asks, holding off his impatience.

The archivist shrugs. ”No-one knows. Some people say he had an argument with Stane and disappeared after that. There was an investigation, of course, but nothing came out of it. It’s like he vanished.” She shakes her head with a fond smile. ”A shame, really. Anthony was an exceptionally bright young man. Handsome as a fae and sometimes just as much trouble but he used to come here quite often to submit schematics for new inventions.”

Steve nods, mulling her words over. ”And who is this Stane?”

The archivist sighs. ”He was, or is, Anthony Stark’s godfather. Howard’s wife passed away soon after Anthony was born and with Howard busy with his business, young Anthony ended up spending a lot of time with Stane. And, after Anthony’s disappearance, he took over. He likes to boast he’s as good an engineer as the Starks were but…” she makes a face. ”Not even close. Also, he’s…a rather unpleasant man.”

Steve hums and taps his fingers against the table. ”Has the shop ever dealt with anything magical?”

The archivist gives him a long look and says, slowly, ”No, or at least it’s not stated in the public record. But I have to say, I wouldn’t put it past him to dabble with something unsavory on the side.”

Steve thanks her and turns to go. When he’s at the door, the archivist clears her throat and says, ”Sir Witcher. If you do find him, tell him Miss Margaret said hi.”

He nods and leaves, mind full of things to plan.

* * *

”I need your help,” he says to Darcy. Her eyes light up and he continues, ”It could be dangerous. And, unfortunately, you’d need to, ah, take advantage of your _assets_.” He nods at her chest.

”I think my boobs can take one for the team,” Darcy says cheerily and then frowns. ”Wait, we are a team, right?”

Steve sighs. ”Right.”

* * *

Stane turns out to be ridiculously easy to lure into a long conversation and a walk around the block with breathy words and a cleavage that makes even Steve swallow and he’s been around Darcy for a while. He watches from the shadow of the alley across the street as Stane leads Darcy back in and then a lamp lights up in the second story apartment. He turns and makes his way around the block and to the back door of the shop.

After a short wait, Darcy opens the door and lets him in.

”Are you alright?” He asks, quickly checking her over. ”Did he hurt you?”

”Aww, you do care!” Darcy coos and raises her hands to cup his cheeks. In a flash, Steve stops her hands by her wrists. ”Oh, don’t fuss,” she says and rolls her eyes. ”I wiped myself clean after he passed out and washed my hands two times, threw the rag and the rest of the powder into the fireplace and watched it burn. I left him on the sofa, his shirt open and his cock hanging out and poured wine on him. He’ll wake up with a hell of a hangover and a solid belief he had a jolly good time.”

Steve blinks and slowly lets go of her hands. ”I’m not sure I want to know where you learned all that.”

She winks and gives him a smile that’s all teeth. ”A girl learns what she has to survive,” she says airily. ”So, why are we here?”

”Something he hid,” he answers and walks to the shelf where the glass globe had been. Then he closes his eyes and slowly turns around, casting his senses wide. His medallion hums against his chest and when he feels something tug at him again, he follows it to the big desk in the back of the room. His heart pounding and the medallion practically vibrating, he reaches out to open a drawer. The first one holds nothing but random papers and pens but when he opens the second drawer, he sees the globe.

Holding his breath, he takes the globe in his hand and the tugging in his chest goes silent.

”That? That’s worth all the trouble?” Darcy asks, reaching over the table to poke at the globe with a finger.

Steve bites back a snarl and snatches the globe away from her prying fingers. He can’t explain it but he knows he has to keep the globe close and safe, away from other people. ”Let’s go,” he says, tucking the globe inside his shirt.

”Witcher? _Steve?_ What’s going on?” Darcy hisses as she hurries after him. ”You need to tell me these things, we’re a team, remember?”

He hushes her when they exit the shop via the back door and she keeps blessedly silent as they make their way back to the inn. Once safely in their room, he places the globe on the bed and crouches down to stare at it.

”I think,” he starts slowly, ”that whatever is inside this globe, is alive.” He glances up at her, standing beside the bed with her eyes wide and mouth slightly open. ”We need a sorceress.”

* * *

Steve has no idea how Natasha knew they were coming but there she is, waiting for them at the gate of her home, dressed in a black velvet dress that seems too hot for the sunny day and also suspiciously devoid of any dust. Her house is a quaint cottage with a lush garden around it and cute, lace-adorned curtains hanging in the windows. It’s all a mirage, of course, because Natasha isn’t quaint or cute.

”Steve,” she greets her, giving him an assessing once-over. ”It’s been a while.”

He shrugs. ”A decade or two, but who’s counting,” he says. ”We need your help.”

Her eyes dart to Darcy.

”Hi, I’m Darcy,” Darcy chirps as she clambers down from Blueberry. ”I’m his bard.”

Natasha slowly turns to give him a raised brow.

”Not by my choice, she isn’t,” he says and jumps down himself. ”Could we talk? Inside?”

She narrows her eyes and nods and beckons them to follow him inside. Steve hands the reins to a black boy that appeared from…somewhere. ”Behave,” he reminds Darcy, already knowing it’s probably in vain.

”So,” Natasha says after she’s sat down on an ornate chair in a cozy living room. ”Tell me why you’re here.”

”Because of this,” Steve says, reaches into the pouch on his belt where the globe has been since the night they took it and holds it in his hand.

She stares at the globe for a long time, fascinated, without even trying to pick it up but her fingers dance along its surface, delicately tracking something only she can sense. ”Well, hello there,” she murmurs. ”I haven’t seen one of these in…ages.”

”So you know what it is?” Steve asks.

”Oh, yes,” she purrs as her eyes light up with green flames. Her fingers stop, hovering over the globe, doing something that makes Steve’s eyes hurt. ”It’s a trapping globe. Powerful, old magic. Some might even say it’s dark or forbidden.” Her eyes slowly turn to Steve. ”Tell me, Witcher where did you find this? And, more curiously, how?”

Her eyes pin him in place and he finds himself unable to look away. He doesn’t know if it’s a spell he’s under or if it’s the years of searching and finally finding what he’d been looking for. ”It’s my Destiny,” he whispers.

On the other side of the room, Darcy gasps but she falls silent as Natasha’s eyes snap to her and at the same time, Steve slumps like a tether had been cut.

”Natasha, I think that whoever is in there, is still alive.”

She nods slowly, her eyes slowly going back to normal. ”I know. That’s what they’re for.”

”Can you get them out?”

”I need to consult my books but I think so, yes.” She reaches out a hand, touches his arm gently. ”But Steve, there’s no guarantee how they are. Depending on the time they’ve been trapped—”

”Three years,” Steve interrupts because it’s the only thing that makes sense.

She gives him a long look and then leans back in her chair. ”At least that’s good news. There’s nothing more I can do now. Miles will direct you to your rooms. I suggest you take a bath before dinner.” She stands up and leaves through a door Steve’s sure wasn’t there a moment ago.

”Wow,” Darcy breathes out, turning to look at him with wide eyes. ”Is that your ex?”

Steve ignores her. The globe is warm in his hand and he’s sure he isn’t imagining the way it hums in his hand. He follows the boy, Miles, up the stairs, tuning out Darcy’s muttering how she was sure the house didn’t have two stories when they walked in. His room is comfortable and warm, with a blazing fireplace and a bathtub waiting in front of it. He places the globe on his bed while he undresses, leaving his swords leaning against the bed and his armor in a heap on the other side of the bathtub. He’ll take care of them later.

The water is almost too hot to be comfortable, exactly the way he likes it. He lowers himself in with a groan and leans back, lets his eyes fall shut as he finally relaxes.

Behind him, the globe is still but the figure inside it twitches.

* * *

As much as Steve would’ve liked to deal with the globe immediately, Natasha informs him that it’s way too powerful for her to start dabbling without further studying. She buries herself in her books, takes notes with black ink in a blood-red notebook that makes Steve’s head hurt if he stares at it for too long, and mutters under her breath in languages he doesn’t understand. Steve meditates, practices his poses, and tends to Spot and his gear as he bites back his impatience while Darcy flits from room to room, curious and completely unfazed by Natasha’s glaring. She seems to discover new rooms every day and gives Steve enthusiastic reports on each every day, whether he likes it or not.

Every day, Natasha holds the globe in her hand and traces her fingers along its smooth surface, staring at it with intensity Steve has never seen before.

Every evening before he goes to bed, Steve holds the globe and tells it everything will be alright.

Every night, the figure twitches.

* * *

Two weeks later, Natasha joins them to breakfast with a smug look.

”I’m ready. We’ll open the globe today.”

Darcy lets out a squeak and slaps Steve on the shoulder, making him almost choke in his tea. ”When?” He asks when he’s cleared his throat.

”In the afternoon. I want as much light as possible and the spell takes a bit of time.”

Steve nods. ”Anything you want me to do?”

She purses her lips and taps a finger on her cheek. ”Perhaps clear your room and air it a bit. And change the sheets. Miles will help you.”

”Wait, why are they staying in Steve’s room?” Darcy pipes up. ”Won’t sharing with a Witcher be too much?”

Natasha cocks her head but keeps her eyes on Steve. ”And where has the globe been so far, bard?” She asks, amused. ”Steve might seem scary at first but he’s just a fluffy puppy under all that glaring. They’ll be fine.”

Steve glares at her but doesn’t protest. The mere idea of _not_ having the globe or its inhabitant near seems unbearable.

”Speaking of which,” Natasha says, ”I need you to leave it in the library. Follow me.” She stands up and walks out without waiting for him, as usual.

”Set it on the pillow on the floor, please,” she says, pointing at the small velvet pillow surrounded by an intricate circle of signs and figures. It makes his medallion hum and he hesitates. ”Oh, you can step in. The circle isn’t active yet so there’s no harm,” she says matter-of-factly. Her focus is already on a row of glass beakers on the table right next to the window. The sun hits the beakers, painting an oddly vibrating, distorted rainbow on the floor.

He gently sets the globe on the pillow, hovering his hands over it to make sure it won’t roll off but it stays exactly where he set it. Carefully, he backs out of the circle and stops, waiting for…a word or acknowledgement from the sorceress. She’s completely absorbed in her work, though, so he nods at himself and exits the room, closing the door softly behind him.

To stave off his mounting nerves, he retires back to his room, stacks his armor neatly on the corner and after some deliberation, sets his swords right next to it. It goes against his training somewhat, because Phillips ingrained the rule of always having their swords right next to them wherever they went. But he trusts that in this house, he’s safe.

Miles brings him new sheets and a couple of extra blankets and fixes the fireplace, piling the logs expertly so that they’re ready whenever they need to get the fire going. He works quietly and keeps out of Steve’s way and he pauses to give him a look. The boy is on the small side but it’s hard to say whether it’s because of his age or if he’s been malnourished. He seems fine now, with a mop of black, curly hair and sharp eyes that see more than he lets on. He never says a word but then again, he’s never around long enough to have a conversation. The low hum of his medallion tells him the boy’s magic, though.

Steve thanks him and his lips draw into a quick smile, revealing a row of elongated and sharp, bright white teeth before he darts out of the room.

”Um,” Steve says and blinks.

He still has time so he sits down and meditates for a moment, although he isn’t sure how much good it does him right now. He feels on the edge of something, the hair on his neck stands to the end, and his medallion keeps with the slowly increasing humming.

As soon as he deems it’s time, he returns to the library and the moment he opens the door, the magic rolls over him. The air in the room is heavy with mounting power, pressing against his skin and making his nose itch. The globe rests on the pillow exactly where he left it but the circle is now shimmering. On the other side of the circle, Natasha stands with her eyes closed and her hands raised, whispering a spell from under her breath while her fingers sway gently like they’re tracing delicate lace. Steve barely dares to breathe as her eyes snap wide open to show nothing but green flames. She hisses out a word in Elder and the globe fills with dark yellow mist. She hisses out another word and a crackle of thunder rumbles in the room. Then her hands freeze for a split second before she claps them together. The mounting magic peaks and the room floods with blinding light.

When the black spots clear from his eyes, Steve sees a naked man on the floor, curled into himself and shivering uncontrollably. He reeks of soul-deep terror and Steve takes a step forward, only to freeze in place, unable to move. He looks up at Natasha, furious and confused.

”Wait,” she grunts, holding a palm up at him. Her eyes are still green flames and her brow shines with sweat as she grits her teeth, brings both of her hands up, and _pours_ that blinding light into a nondescript clay jar on her other side. She snaps it shut, lets out a shuddering breath, and closes her eyes. ”Well, that was unpleasant,” she says as she turns to face the circle and with her right foot, rubs at the markings, smudging the intricate patterns. Something trembles in the room and then it’s suddenly easier to breathe.

”Okay,” she says and waves her arm. ”Have at it.”

Steve lurches forward, snatches a blanket from the sofa, and gently tucks it over and around the unconscious man. His heart aches as the man whimpers and flinches away from him and he lets out low, comforting sounds to calm him down. It seems to help at least a bit and he doesn’t flinch as hard when Steve gathers him in his arms and stands up. His other arm hangs limply and Steve gives Natasha a grateful smile as she gently sets it on the man’s lap. Her fingers touch his temple and trace along his cheek and he stills in Steve’s arms, the sickening smell of terror dissipating.

”Thank you,” Steve whispers and clutches the man closer. He feels small and fragile in his hold but his heart is beating steadily now after the terror is gone. His weight and frame feels _right_ , like this is where he’s supposed to be: in Steve’s arms, his head resting on his shoulder and his breath tickling Steve’s neck.

”Sweet Melitele,” Darcy breathes. ”Who in the seven hells is that?”

Steve cranes his neck to take a better look. ”I think—no, I _know—_ this is Anthony Stark.”

_My Destiny_ , he doesn’t add as he walks out of the library and takes the stairs into his room.

He already knows he’s willing to do anything to keep him safe.


	2. ...to Destiny...

The last thing he remembers is the sharp sting of betrayal and then pain, confusion, and more pain until…darkness.

The first thing he feels as he twitches awake is _warm_ and then he’s engulfed in _white_.

After that, it’s more pain and confusion and darkness until it’s not but it’s still dark and he’s still confused but he’s also warm and nothing makes sense and then _green_ and _power_ and _thunder_ and _terror_ and _cold_ and—

And then someone cradles him close and he’s still terrified and then the fear is gone and all that’s left is _warm_ and _safe._

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt safe.

* * *

He wakes up slowly to a dim room and soft blankets. He’s lying on his side, his face barely clear from the covers someone had bundled him into, and he’s comfortable. A fire blazes merrily in the fireplace, painting the whole room in warm, yellow light and dancing shadows.

It’s a nice room and he has no fucking clue where he is and why.

”How do you feel?” Someone asks and he yelps. On the floor by the wall sits a man, covered in shadows but for his eyes gleaming in the firelight. ”I don’t know how much you remember or if you can understand me, but you’re safe. It’s two weeks before summer solstice. We’re at the house of the sorceress Natasha. I’m Steve.” The man falls silent suddenly and ducks his head, almost as if he was embarrassed by the words that poured from his mouth.

He frowns and scrunches his nose. His mouth feels weird and his body even weirder—oh, that’s his stomach grumbling. With an indignant huff, he pushes himself to sit up, feeling only slightly lightheaded and winded. The man—Steve—lets out a startled noise and jumps up, ending up hovering by the bed with wide eyes.

Eyes that are golden.

He frowns and tilts his head to look behind Steve at the bundle in the corner that looks suspiciously like armor and, yeah. Two swords.

”You’re a Witcher,” he rasps and winces at the way his voice scrapes at his throat.

Steve huffs and nods. ”Yeah,” he says quietly. ”Do you remember who you are?”

He raises an imperious brow but it doesn’t seem to have an effect. ”Of course I remember. I’m Tony Stark. Care to tell me why I’m naked in your bed? Because that seems to have slipped my mind.”

Steve blinks a couple of times and his eyes slip down to his naked chest and then jump back up and—is that blush on his cheeks? Interesting.

”I’ll get you some clothes,” Steve stammers. ”And then food?”

Tony grins. ”Sounds lovely.”

Steve nods and hurries out of the room, leaving Tony half-sitting, half reclining on the bed. He slowly corrects his posture and turns to sit properly, letting his legs dangle from the edge of the bed. He stares at them, cocks his head, frowns. They look thinner than he remembers. Atrophied. He pushes the blanket off his lap and takes a look at himself and, yep, he’s definitely thinner than he’s supposed to be. His skin looks almost opaque and he can see the small bumps of his sternum and the ridges of his ribs, and he’s pretty sure his hipbones shouldn’t be that prominent. He leans forward to take a better look at his feet and that’s when the door opens.

”Tony!”

He jolts and nearly tumbles off the bed. ”What? What’s wrong?”

Steve grips his shoulders and pushes him to sit back up, a bewildered look in his eyes. ”What do you mean, ’what’s wrong?’ You were about to fall off the bed!”

He frowns. ”No I wasn’t. I was just checking my legs.”

Steve looks down and at the same time Tony realizes the blanket is by his side which means Steve is getting an eyeful of his…well, everything. The Witcher seems to realize the same because he jerks his head up, blinking rapidly.

”Your legs seem fine,” he says, slightly forced.

Tony shrugs. ”Yeah, apart from being skinny. Like the rest of me.”

”Ah,” Steve says. ”I think we can help with that. Can you dress up on your own?”

”If I can’t, I can count on your help, right?” He quips with a grin, delighted at the way the Witcher doesn’t know what to do with it.

He manages to get the simple shirt on by himself but the smallclothes and trousers prove more difficult. After several attempts which all would’ve ended in him falling headfirst on the floor, Steve sighs and gently guides his legs where they should go and then helps him stand up so that he can pull them up. The whole ordeal leaves Tony shaking and breathless and he doesn’t even bother protesting when Steve wordlessly puts a pair of soft socks on him.

”I don’t think you’re up to walking yet,” Steve says quietly. ”So, I need to carry you.” He doesn’t do anything, though, and it takes Tony quite a long moment to realize Steve’s waiting for his permission.

”Oh, right. Yes, by all means,” he says and waves his hand, trying to go for an imperious air but he’s pretty sure is just uncoordinated flailing.

As Steve gently gathers him in his arms and stands up, Tony can’t help the way his heart starts hammering. The feeling of weightlessness is at the same time familiar and completely alien and for a moment, he isn’t sure whether he should curl into the embrace or throw himself to the floor. Steve stays completely still and barely breathing, clearly waiting for Tony to get his initial reaction under control. Finally, he swallows and carefully rests his head against Steve’s shoulder. It feels…good. Safe. Like he belongs.

”I’m gonna take you to the dining room now,” Steve says. His voice is soft and rumbles in his chest, the resonance humming through Tony’s head. He lets out an agreeing sound and Steve starts walking.

He loses his sense of time and surroundings as he closes his eyes and burrows his nose against the warm skin. Steve smells warm and earthy, like home and safety, and, for fuck’s sake, if Tony was more alert, he’d snort at himself. Home and safety, that’s something a bard would say. How about heroics and heartbreak while he’s at it?

The dining room is a cozy space lit with candles and a roaring flame in the fireplace. His stomach rumbles again and Steve huffs which makes him feel warm. The Witcher sets him down on a chair and moves it closer to the table, then stays beside him.

”Oh, for goodness’ sake, Steve,” a petite woman with deep red hair and power in her eyes says. ”Stop hovering and sit down.”

Steve glares at her but sits down after another glance at Tony.

”So, I assume you’re the lady of this house?” Tony asks.

The woman’s lips quirk. ”You assume right, except that I’m no lady.” She sits down and nods at the table. ”You can call me Natasha. Feel free to eat your fill, although I’d advice you tread carefully. It’s been a long time since you last ate and I’m pretty sure that heavier food will upset your stomach.” She pauses and shrugs. ”Then again, I’m not the boss of you. Eat what you want but if you throw up, you’ll be cleaning it up too.”

The table is laden with trays of food, everything from broth to honeycakes to roast to steamed vegetables to berries to leafy greens, although Tony isn’t sure whether they’re for decoration or eating. Considering how well standing up went, he points at the broth, a bread roll, and a pitcher with fragrant tea, only feeling slightly embarrassed when Steve is far too eager to help him out like Tony was a helpless child.

It’s way too easy to recall the times he had to deal with starvation and how his body reacted after his Father deigned to feed him so he minds himself, eating the broth spoonful at a time, nibbling small pieces of bread, and taking a sip of tea between each. He doesn’t miss the sharp looks Steve and Natasha share but he’s starting to feel slightly overwhelmed to do anything about it. This whole place, it seems warm and inviting and both Steve and Natasha are _nice_ and he doesn’t really know what to think about that.

He’s about to lift the teacup to his lips when someone slams into the room through the door behind him and he freezes, dropping the cup as the world narrows down around him, focusing in on the pinprick feel in his neck that someone’s behind him he doesn’t see he doesn’t know he should hide where to go who is that it’s not safe no no no no—

Something warm on his neck jolts him back to his body and he gasps and gasps, trying to fill his lungs but they’re not quite working and—

”Breathe, Tony,” Steve rumbles into his ear in a soft voice. His hand rests on the nape of his neck gentle and _safe_ and his breath tickles Tony’s cheek. He forces a gulp of air into his lungs and then pushes it out, does it again, again, again, closes his eyes against the glaring light in the room and rests his temple against something solid right next to him. It resonates under his skin, beats a slow, steady rhythm and oh, it’s Steve. It’s Steve’s chest he’s leaning against, Steve’s hand on his neck, Steve’s heartbeat in his ear.

It’s Steve and he’s safe.

And Tony has no fucking clue why he’s so sure of it.

”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” a wavering voice repeats. Female.

Tony forces his eyes open after an undetermined time spent in the safety of Steve’s closeness and looks up. A young woman stands on the other side of the table, her eyes huge and apologetic, wringing her hands. She’s dressed in colorful clothes that are a cross between a bard’s outfit and the attire of a high-class courtesan and her dark brown hair tumbles down her shoulders in wild curls. She notices he’s watching her and freezes.

”I didn’t mean to scare you, I swear!” She hurries to say, eager and earnest. ”But you were inside the glass ball Steve carried around like the most important thing in the whole world—which, yeah, I get it, it was you so of course it was important—and did he tell you I had to seduce this creepy old man to save you? I’m Darcy, his bard.”

”Not by my choice,” Steve mutters but it sounds fond.

”Um, I’m Tony,” Tony says, wincing slightly at the way his voice rasps. He leaves the safety of Steve and leans forward to pick up his teacup and takes a sip, belatedly realizing it had been smashed to pieces when Darcy came in. He glances at Natasha who gives him a wink.

Did she just magic his teacup back together?

Slightly flustered, he hides behind his cup and— ”Wait. Seduce?”

Darcy shrugs and examines her nails, a picture of nonchalance that looks achingly familiar to him. ”Yeah. I left him sprawled on the sofa with his dick out and poured a bottle of wine on him.”

Tony tilts his head and gives her a long, assessing look. She’s young but her eyes carry a certain defiance he’s seen in the mirror many times. She’s been hurt and she knows how to hurt back. ”Tell me you didn’t use Golden Kiss,” Tony says slowly.

Darcy snorts. ”What do I look like, an amateur? Golden Kiss leaves traces and also absorbs through skin which is way too risky for me. I used the pearl version of Mauve.”

Mauve. One of the most hard-to-find poisons out there with versions one needs to know how to mix and measure oneself. Pearl is perhaps the hardest to get right and takes years to master it properly. Tony stares at her for a moment, then sets down his cup and says, ”Nope. You’re mine now.”

Darcy lets out a delighted squeak while Steve sounds like he’s choking on something. Natasha just laughs.

* * *

They gather in the library later that day. Steve carries him again and this time, the terror of being weightless is more manageable. He still grips Steve’s shirt in a white-knuckled grip and presses his nose against the crook of his neck, though, and files the Witcher’s shiver to examine later.

”To get this over with: Steve finding you wasn’t a coincidence, Tony,” Natasha says bluntly as he’s sitting comfortably, so close to Steve he can feel the heat he radiates. ”You’re his Destiny, he was meant to find you and save you. We all are connected, bound together by Destiny and I think I know why.

”Steve and I have already talked about this years ago. Over a century ago, I was…expelled from Aretuza. There’s no need to go into specifics but let’s just say the Brotherhood concerns themselves far too much with the petty squabbles between the kingdoms and conveniently ignores there are bigger things in motion. As a result, I’ve placed myself as a sentinel for the whole Continent because it’s pitifully clear the so-called leaders have no idea of what’s actually going on.

”As is commonly known, aeons ago, a great Cataclysm tore a rift through the Veil and released magic to our world. What isn’t commonly known is that magic wasn’t all they let through. A…let’s call it a representative of beings that reside beyond the Veil slipped through the rift mixed in and with the magic we are familiar with. It’s been gathering power and influencing people ever since. They call themselves The Hydra.”

”Beings?” Tony asks.

”Gods. Old Gods.”

”You mean…like Melitele and such?” Darcy asks.

The smile that slowly spreads on Natasha’s lips is chilling. ”Sweet child, Melitele is an ant under the boots of the Old Gods.”

Darcy swallows with wide eyes and curls slightly into herself.

”The three of us have made contact with the Old Ones: Steve in the barony of Sokovy and Tony in the prison of the glass globe. I have my reasons for why I knew where to seal the globe’s magic,” she continues, glancing pointedly at a nondescript clay jar on the shelf.

Tony follows her eyes to the jar and flinches. Something about it makes him feel sick and he quickly averts his eyes, meeting Steve’s concerned gaze. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches out his hand to grip Steve’s in his. It feels grounding and right and he leaves it where it is, ignoring Natasha’s knowing look.

Darcy raises her hand. ”So, what about me?” She asks. ”Y’all have had contact with some unnamed horrors but I haven’t battled a swarm of smoke tentacles or been trapped in a magic ball.”

Tony leans to Steve and whispers, ”Smoke tentacles?”

”I’ll tell you later,” Steve murmurs back. Neither of them moves away from each other, leaning comfortably to each other’s warmth.

Natasha sighs and gives her a long look. ”Would it really make you feel better if you had a connection to unknown evil?” She asks bluntly. ”I assure you, you’re better off without it.”

”Well…I mean, I don’t want to feel left out?” Darcy says, giving her a pleading look.

”You are a self-proclaimed bard to a Witcher whose very Destiny is tied to the Old Gods,” Natasha points out. ”I wouldn’t say you’re left out.” She watches the bard for a moment and then seems to come to a decision. ”How about I give you something to read and you can then decide if you’re better off with or without a personal connection to the Old Ones, hmm?”

She rises to her feet, reminding Tony of a lazy cat, and walks to her bookshelf. Her fingers dance along the spines for some time, almost hypnotic, until they stop at a heavy tome bound in deep green leather. She picks it up and hands it to Darcy. ”Here. This should get you started.”

Darcy nods and opens the lid, leafing through the worn pages. She reads a bit here and there, blinks several times, and closes the lid, resting her palms against the worn leather. ”I—I think I’m gonna go for—yeah,” she says, looking slightly green, and leaves.

Tony desperately wants to know what spooked her but he also wants to know what the hell is going on with the Continent. So, he clears his throat and asks, ”So, lady sentinel. What the hell is going on?”

She sits back down on her chair, crosses her legs, and leans back. ”The end of the world, of course.”

Tony blinks. ”Of course,” he repeats flatly. ”Because what else could it be?”

She raises a brow. ”I don’t think you want to know the answer to that one, Anthony.”

He scowls. ”First of all, don’t call me Anthony. The only people who did were Howard and Obie and I’d rather not remember either of them. Second, don’t treat me like an idiot. I might have been sealed in a ball for a couple of years but I’m a certified genius in more areas than you can probably name. My time on this continent hasn’t been stellar so far but considering I’ve found reason to stick around, I’d like it to, you know, continue existing. So, how about you tell us exactly what’s going on and how we can stop it, alright?”

Natasha smiles like cat that got the canary and gives Steve a coy smile. ”Well done. I like him.”

”I like him too and no, you can’t have him,” Steve says dryly.

_”He_ is right here,” Tony grumbles, feeling warm inside out. It’s an odd feeling and he likes it.

Natasha gives him an amused look. ”Alright then, genius. Let’s start with some poetry.”

* * *

Two days later, Tony wishes he could take his words back because he’d rather not know what the hell was going on.

”So, you mean _all of this,”_ he motions at the piles of book on his side, ”is just the prelude?”

”Yes,” Natasha sighs. ”And that’s partially history, partially hearsay, partially ramblings of a couple of village madmen. The ones I trust the most are these journals,” she taps at the stack on her table, ”and that’s saying a lot because they’re written by mages and mages tend to bend the narrative to their benefit. Besides, I’m missing several and I can’t figure out where to find them.”

”Hmm,” Tony hums and drums his fingers lightly against his cheek. ”So, would a roughly thousand years old Witcher journal help?”

”What,” she says in a flat voice. ”And why the fuck do you know about something like that?”

He shrugs. ”Back when I was studying, we used to spend ages in the Central Library of Oxenfurt. There’s a highly guarded section, very hush-hush, that stores some of the rarest books in the Continent in magically sealed glass cases. And one of those is a millennia old Witcher journal.”

A slow smile spread on Natasha’s face. ”Tell me, have you ever traveled through portals?”

”Can’t say I have but it can’t be worse than being trapped inside a bauble for years, right?”

She snorts. ”Compared to that, most things aren’t.” She pauses to give him a considering look. ”Speaking of which, can you even walk on your own? I can portal us straight into the library and back but you still have to be able to make it into the restricted area.”

He shrugs. ”Well, I can’t rely on Steve forever,” he points out. ”I’ve been walking a bit, getting up from the chair and sitting back down and stuff like that.” Natasha gives him a flat look and he huffs. ”Look, if we wait around for my strength to come back in full, the world will end many times over. I know I’m weak. I know my legs won’t hold me if I have to run up the stairs. But the only way I’ll get better if I do something. And if I stay here and brood, I’m gonna lose my mind. And let me tell you, that’s not something you want.”

Natasha cocks her head. ”Are you…threatening me?” She asks, thoroughly, infuriatingly amused.

Tony makes a face. ”No,” he says, annoyed. ”I’m just stating a fact. Howard used to put me on house arrest during summer recess because of my ’scandalous behavior.’ He gave it up after I’d blown seven holes through the wall with nothing but kitchen condiments and some creativity.”

She shakes her head. ”Fine. But you’ll deal with Steve.”

Tony swallows and tries to make his eyes as wide and pleading as possible. ”Couldn’t you do that for me? Just, you know, say you’ll take me for an errand and return me in a couple of hours and Steve isn’t allowed with?”

This time, she actually laughs. ”Those eyes might work on him but not on me. Besides, he’s your lover, not mine. You deal with him.”

He fights down a blush. ”He isn’t my lover,” he mumbles. But not for lack of trying. In fact, he’s tried every trick in his books—at least the ones he can with his depleted strength—but so far, Steve hasn’t caved. He carries Tony everywhere, serves him food, and watches him for the slightest sign of discomfort. He stays in his room and stands—or sits—in guard as Tony sleeps (in Steve’s bed, mind you) and when Tony asked if he’s actually been sleeping at all, Steve said he’s been meditating.

Tony can admit he’s slightly offended.

”For Melitele’s sake, why not?” Natasha asks, throwing her hands up in exasperation. ”Even the cows on the field can see he’s head over heels for you! You know, the main reason things didn’t work out between us on top of me not being one for steady relationships was the fact that he knew there was someone out there waiting for him. And that someone is you. So why is he being a chivalrous idiot?”

Steve chooses that moment to step in, hair slightly damp from his morning exercise. His eyes light up at the sight of Tony but his greeting dies on his lips as Natasha stomps to him, jabs him on the chest with her finger, and says, ”I’m taking your boy to Oxenfurt and you can’t come.” Then she snatches Tony up by the arm, summons a portal there and then, and marches through with Tony.

”See you later, don’t wait up!” Tony quips over his shoulder, feeling only slightly bad for the flummoxed Witcher staring after them with wide eyes.

They land in a dead-end hallway right next to the stairs to the restricted section. He sways slightly on his feet before regaining his balance, fighting back nausea. Natasha holds out her hand to him and they start forward, going as fast as Tony is able. When they reach the double doors of the restricted section, she does an intricate move with her right hand over the doorknob. The lock glows briefly green and the door opens with a soft click.

”We have fifteen minutes,” she whispers as they slip inside. ”Then the magic activates again and will alert the guards and the university.”

Tony nods and concentrates on his breathing. His lungs feel like they’re on fire and his legs burn but he doesn’t dare to stop or speak because he isn’t sure he could move again if he did. He wordlessly points her in the right direction and wishes he doesn’t stumble.

The journal rests on a deep blue velvet pillow under glass walls. It’s open on the first page, displaying a somewhat shaky title of _’The Journal of Henry of Armitage.’_ The writing is slightly smudged and the leaves wrinkled but considering how old it is, it’s in a surprisingly good shape.

He stands aside as Natasha splays her fingers wide over the glass and concentrates. After a moment, the cube starts slowly raising, vibrating like it isn’t sure if it should move or stay still. ”Grab the book,” Natasha hisses. ”Quick!”

Tony steps forward and reaches out. The hairs on his forearms stand to an end as his hands go under the glass and he shudders, closes the book, and gently lifts it out. As soon as his hands are out of the way, Natasha lowers the cube back to its proper place and lets out a breath. She takes a look at him, says, ”Wait here,” and then darts among the shelves.

Tony takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. It’s been ages since he last was in Oxenfurt and while he enjoyed the lessons for the most part, his memories of the place aren’t wholly pleasant, especially after Rhodey left. Being ostracised leaves a mark and the sooner they’re anywhere but here, the better. The book feels heavy and smells slightly musty, the kind that tickles your throat and tries to make you sneeze. He scrunches his nose and fights back the urge, cradling the book against his chest.

”Okay, let’s go,” Natasha says, appearing suddenly on the opposite side from where she had gone. She’s holding several more books under her arm and with the other, she starts guiding Tony out. The door they entered through is slightly ajar and she peeks out before opening it just wide enough for them to slip through. It closes behind them with barely a sound and the latch flashes green again.

”We need to get away from the door,” she says under her breath. ”If I open the portal right here, it’ll trigger the alarms.”

”Yeah, sure,” Tony manages and takes a couple of deep breaths.

They go down a flight of stairs and then Natasha scans the perimeter and opens a portal. They step through and end up on a field by a mountain.

”What—” Tony asks, lightheaded.

”Sorry about this,” Natasha says. ”I’m taking precautions, just to be safe.”

They jump from the mountain to a desert to a small island to a cobblestoned side street that stinks like piss and then finally to her library. When they finally land back home, Tony stumbles and drops to his knees, gasping and dry heaving on the floor.

”What the fuck did you think you were doing?” He hears Steve roar and then, right before he passes out, Natasha’s, ”Just kiss him already, idiot.”

* * *

_He dreams of swimming in yellow mist. His body is rocking gently, a movement that should feel comforting and safe but that leaves him dizzy and drenched in cold sweat. Something enormous is looming over him, above him, around him, a malicious intent he feels to his core and he’s sure the only reason he’s overlooked is because he’s simply so unimportant, so minuscule and tiny that he doesn’t matter._

_None of them matter._

_From somewhere, he hears a low chanting, garbled and dissonant. It repeats over and over again, hypnotic and repulsive, slithering in the base of his skull like a tendril. He wants to lean into it and away from it and he wants to scream and tear out his own mind because now it SEES him and he doesn’t want it he fears it and it enjoys his fear and—_

* * *

Tony gasps awake an undetermined time later, groggy and disoriented. ”Ow,” he says and closes his eyes, unwilling to deal with the world just yet. Or perhaps the world would be alright but only if it’s dark.

”Please, don’t do that again,” Steve says quietly. His voice seems to come from somewhere lower than Tony and, oh, right, he’s sitting on the floor again.

”You look terrible,” Tony says, taking in the Witcher with one eye barely cracked open. ”I can’t with…anything right now. Get in here,” he mumbles and pats haphazardly at the space behind him.

”Tony—”

”No,” he says. ”Bed.”

Steve sighs. ”Fine.” He gets slowly up and climbs into the bed, settling stiffly beside Tony.

Well that won’t do, Tony grumbles under his breath and burrows closer, tucks his nose against Steve’s collarbone, his arm around his midriff, and slots his leg in between Steve’s. ”Perfect,” he murmurs against the warm skin under his lips and hums as the Witcher shivers.

A short moment later, Steve moves carefully, turns just so to face him, and wraps his arms around Tony. Surrounded by his Witcher, Tony drifts off.

* * *

The next time Tony wakes up, he’s sweating. Apparently Witchers run hot and combined with the blankets, Tony feels like that one time in a sauna. He tosses the blankets to the side, leaving just a thin sheet on, and settles back down. He isn’t tired anymore but he feels no need to get up either. And why would he, facing the peacefully sleeping Steve? The Witcher has moved slightly lower in the bed, sleeping with his ear against Tony’s chest now and both hands wrapped around him. It probably should feel stifling but it doesn’t. He just feels safe.

Without a second thought, he runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. It’s cropped short, most likely for practical reasons, and it feels so soft against his fingers. Steve lets out a low rumble not unlike a purr and leans to the touch just slightly. Something about the instinctual response thrills Tony; that a simple pleasure like petting his hair would make Steve feel that.

”You smell content,” Steve says, his voice sleep-rough.

”That’s probably because I am,” Tony says. ”I’m safe and I’m with you which somehow mean the same thing.”

Steve turns his head to look at him and Tony’s hand slips to his neck and the moment seems to stretch as they look into each other’s eyes. Steve’s golden eyes are magnetic and Tony feels like he could gaze into them for eternity. It’s probably something Darcy would say but it’s no less true.

He isn’t sure which of them moves first but then they’re kissing. Tony feels completely at ease, laying down and bracketed by Steve’s massive frame. The kiss is searing and if it wasn’t for the need to breathe, Tony would gladly drown in it. But alas, air is a necessity, so he draws back, panting. Steve’s eyes are wide and wild and his arms tremble like he’s trying to hold himself back. With a huff, Tony grabs him with both hands to kiss him again, licking into his mouth with desperation that somehow surprises him. With a growl Steve responds with equal passion and then flips them around so that Tony’s on top of him.

The casual show of strength turns Tony on more than he would’ve thought. ”Off, I need this off,” he pants and yanks at Steve’s shirt and then lets out a muffled yelp as Steve sits up to take it off. He hurries to get rid of his own shirt and then feels strangely vulnerable, bared to Steve’s eyes.

”You’re gorgeous,” Steve says and it’s the reverence in his voice that stops Tony from rolling his eyes. He knows he’s nothing compared to the chiseled Witcher physique, at least not now, starved and atrophied. But the dark, hungry look in Steve’s eyes makes up for it and when he presses close and kisses him again, Steve’s arms spasm around him, clutching him close with almost bruising force.

They’re both too keyed up to do much else than grind together and it takes an embarrassing short time for Tony to gasp and bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck as he comes in his breeches. Steve lets out a noise like he’d been punched and stills, pressing Tony down on his lap. Something sings between them, a force or magic or the fulfilment of Destiny, warm and content.

Tony barely feels it as Steve lays back down, bringing him with him. He swims in his pleasure as his skin hums, and all he feels is safe and home.

* * *

”I have good news and bad news,” Natasha says the next morning. ”The good news, in addition to you two finally getting your act together,” she looks pointedly at Tony and Steve, ”is that the journal Tony and I got yesterday is valid. The bad news is…we’re running out of time.”

”Meaning?” Tony asks at the same time as Darcy squeals, ”I knew it!”

”This was written shortly after the Cataclysm happened,” Natasha says as she drums her fingers on the journal. ”And, according to the author, the next window for what they call The Great Rift will be in a millennia. Which is about now. As satisfied as I am for getting my suspicions confirmed, I would’ve preferred more time.” She sighs. ”But it is what it is. Now, we have to decide what we’re going to do about it.”

Tony raises his hand. ”I have two questions,” he says. ”First, what’s the timeframe and second, who is this ’we’ you’re talking about?”

She glances at Steve. ”In a nutshell, there’s a network of…extraordinary people working together to keep the Continent safe.” Natasha says. ”Based on the information we’ve managed to gather, we’ve established a base of operation on the coast near Skellige. It’s near the original Cataclysm site and since the Veil between worlds is already thin and scarred there, it’s the most likely place where it’ll rip again.

”As for the timeframe…” she pauses and takes a deep breath. ”We have three weeks.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and then—

”Three weeks—”

”What the fuck—”

”Sweet Melitele—”

She raises a placating hand. ”I know, I know. I’ve already informed the others and preparations are being made. I’m reaching out for more people today. We’ll leave in three days, preferably earlier if possible. Steve, I want you to get the word out for all remaining Witchers out there. And Miles,” she pauses, sadness in her eyes as she looks at the black boy that had appeared from somewhere. ”We’ll need your Blaze.”

Tony’s eyes go wide as Miles nods and bares his teeth. A Blaze is…it’s the stuff of legends. A fairytale. It’s—Tony swallows because he swears he’s never seen that many sharp teeth in a small boy’s mouth and also because the boy isn’t really a boy and it makes him unreasonably nervous.

He pushes his nervousness aside as Miles darts out of the room via yet another door that wasn’t there a moment ago and looks at Natasha. ”What do you need from me?” He asks and shushes Steve who opens his mouth to interrupt. ”No, there’s a reason why you found me and, as much as I’m enjoying myself, there has to be another reason than to just have sex.” He reaches out to grip Steve’s hand in his and gives him a small, tentative smile.

”I don’t know yet,” Natasha says and frowns. ”You’re important but until we reach Triskelion, I can’t say for sure.”

”What about me?” Darcy asks in an uncharacteristically subdued voice. ”I mean, I don’t have any powers and, apart from poisoning creepy men who think my tits are public property, I have no special skills.”

”I believe I can come up with some use for you,” Natasha says with a small smile that seems suspiciously knowing. ”If nothing else, you can always exasperate the troops with your singing.”

”Excuse you!” Darcy gasps, indignant, as Tony grins and Steve snorts.

* * *

The next couple of days go by in a blur. Natasha sends even more letters and after some intense scowling at the paper, Steve sends a couple himself.

”There aren’t many of us left,” he says later that day when they’re lounging in bed, his voice quiet and somehow fragile. ”We lost the ability to make more Witchers after Kaer Morhen was attacked and…” He falls silent for a long while and stares at the ceiling, a hand under his head and the other around Tony.

Tony lets out a hum and raises his head from Steve’s chest. ”They’re your brothers, the only thing you have left from your past. I understand.”

Steve nods and asks, ”What about you? Do you have anyone you might want to contact?”

”No,” Tony says and lays his head back on Steve’s chest. ”Not anymore.” He doesn’t bother mentioning Rhodey because it’s futile. They were roommates in Tony’s first year in Oxenfurt but they lost contact after Rhodey returned home and now that Rhodey’s hometown has fallen… there’s no point.

Steve’s arm tightens around him and, oh, right, sadness. Steve can probably smell it.

”So, what happens next?” He asks lightly to change the subject.

”Well, after Natasha gets her things sorted out, we’ll portal close to Triskelion. We can’t get straight in because it’s hidden and shielded but we’ll get close enough and go on by foot. And when we reach it…” Steve sighs. ”I don’t know. The Hydra is coming and someone has to keep them at bay so that whoever Natasha has been working with can concentrate on securing the rip.”

”And by someone you mean you, I assume?”

Steve huffs and when Tony turns his head to look at him, he’s wearing a small, sad smile. ”I’m a killing machine, Tony,” he says softly. ”That’s what I was literally made into.”

”You’re more than that!” Tony snaps hotly. ”You—”

”Am not a sorceress like Natasha or a brilliant engineer like you. I’m just a Witcher.”

Tony gives him a narrow-eyed look and is about to let Steve know exactly how much more than ’just’ a Witcher he is when there’s a sharp knock on the door. Without waiting for permission, Natasha steps in, ignores their embrace, and says, ”Time to go.”

The next moment, she’s gone again and Tony stares at the empty spot at the open door. With a sigh, he pushes himself to sit up, gives Steve a somber look, and gets up. He opens his mouth to say something but can’t come up with anything so he just shrugs and gathers up his small bag of meager possessions.

Natasha is waiting for them in the back yard with a two small travel chests. They travel light, with just their barest essentials—which for Steve are his swords, armor, and Spot and for Darcy, apparently Blueberry, her lute, and two bottles of Redanian plum liquor. Natasha looks around, nods, and opens a portal with a graceful swirl of her hand. It opens into a clearing surrounded by thick woods and with, oh, a fire crackling merrily in the center. She lets the portal stabilize for a short moment and then sends her chests through.

With a shrug, Darcy takes Blueberry’s reins and steps through and Tony swallows, steels himself, and follows. Considering his last experience with portals, Tony isn’t exactly thrilled but since it saves them weeks of traveling, he’ll bear it. The feeling of weightlessness and vertigo is the same as last time but the portal seems somehow more solid. He doesn’t even stumble this time which is nice because the fire is right there.

The campsite is empty which seems odd, because someone made the fire and left the bedrolls next to it. He wonders if this is perhaps one of Natasha’s contacts, making sure they have a safe place to portal into. There isn’t any food, though, which is a shame. He is a bit hungry already.

By the time he’s finished checking the clearing, Steve and Spot are already there, followed by Natasha who shuts the portal with a swooshing sound and then takes a critical look around. She purses her lips and shakes her head, muttering something under her breath that Tony doesn’t quite catch. It’s evident Steve hears it, though, because his lips draw into a small smile.

Tony is distracted by Steve’s face which is the _only_ reason he lets out a small yelp as something rustles in the bushes a split moment before something flies past Tony’s cheek so fast he barely feels the air it moves. He hears an impact behind him and whirls around, alarmed—only to see Steve gripping an arrow in his fist with a raised brow.

”Was that the best you can do?” He hollers and smirks.

”Some day,” a voice grumbles and a short, compact man with tousled light brown hair and a purple doublet steps into the camp. ”Some day I’ll beat your freaky Witcher reflexes.”

”No, you won’t,” Natasha says mildly and cuffs him lightly in the back of his head. He answers with trying to swipe her legs under her and somehow ends up on his belly with his head in a stranglehold and Natasha’s knee pressing to his lower back. She says something that sounds guttural and harsh but the tone is friendly and he answers in kind and then they’re hugging and it’s the weirdest hello Tony has ever witnessed.

”I apologize for my companion’s lack of manners,” a man says dryly from right next to Tony even though he could’ve sworn the spot was empty a split moment earlier. ”I can’t take him anywhere.”

”Aww, Phil,” the archer says with a mischievous glint in his eye. ”You love to take me everywhere! Last night you took me to a completely new levels of—”

”Yes, thank you, Clint,” Phil interrupts in the same mild and dry tone but the tips of his ears are red. ”As you can see, Witcher, he’s just as impossible as ever.”

Steve grins. ”Master Coulson,” he says and clasps his arm. ”I have to say I’m surprised but happy to see you here.”

”I don’t see how this was a surprise,” Natasha says.

”Lady Natasha,” Phil—Master Coulson—says and bows slightly.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. ”None of that. You’re the man who for some unimaginable reason has chosen my very best friend as their companion in life, so the least you can do is to call me Natasha.”

”Hey!” Clint says, offended. ”What do you mean, ’for some unimaginable reason’? I’m adorable! And lovable! And a great lay!”

Master Coulson rolls his eyes heavenward and mutters something under his breath before turning to Tony. ”I’m afraid I don’t know your name…?” He says and offers his hand to Tony.

Tony gives him a thoughtful look, takes in the almost preternaturally clear grey eyes, the subtly pointed ears and Clint’s grin that’s just slightly too wide and sharp. Well, shit. ”Would it be wise for me to give you my name?” He asks bluntly.

Master Coulson’s eyes widen slightly as he drops his hand and Clint lets out a delighted laugh. ”That was fast,” he says. ”I don’t remember the last time a human caught up on you, Phil.”

”You have keen eyes,” Master Coulson says, sounding delightfully surprised. ”That’s a good thing. Let me rephrase; My name is Master Phillip Coulson, former head of the palace guard of Queen Maria of Broklen, among many other things. And yes, I’m part elf. My companion is Clinton Barton of the fae. We are a part of an intelligence network called The Shield which spread across the Continent. Natasha brought you here so, yes, it’s safe for you to tell us your name. Wise…” He gives Tony a sharp grin. ”That remains to be seen.”

”Fair enough,” Tony says. ”My name is Anthony Stark but I go by Tony. I’m an engineer, inventor, alchemist, mathematician, blah blah blah, boring. As far as I know, I’m human but spending three years in a glass globe might have changed something.”

Master Coulson looks sharply at Natasha who nods. ”Yes. It was a trapping globe. But I can’t say anything more for sure until we reach Triskelion.”

From the other side of the campfire, Darcy waves her hand. ”Hi, I’m Darcy, Steve’s bard, and no fucking way am I giving you my full name.”

Master Coulson’s amused eyes dart to Steve who sighs and mutters, ”Not by my choice but…whatever.”

They settle in with friendly chatter: Master Coulson (”You can call me Phil, you know?”) and Natasha talk in calm tones about poetry—which Tony honestly suspects must be a code for something sinister—before she leaves through another portal, Darcy exchanges barbs and insults with an increasingly delighted Clint while Master Coulson looks at them in fond exasperation, and Steve arranges their bedrolls next to each other and sits down tugging Tony to lean against his chest. He lets out a contented sigh and closes his eyes. He feels settled, like pieces he didn’t know he’d been missing have been found and slotted in place.

It feels like Destiny.

* * *

Tony wakes up with a start. The camp is silent around him and for a moment, he’s not sure why he’s awake. Then he hears Steve’s low snarl and he sees it; red mist creeping along the ground, circling around the camp and reaching out for him. Clint and Master Coulson lie deathly still in each other’s arms and the red mist surrounds them like thin tendrils of vine.

”What—?”

Steve shushes him and grouches low, silver sword drawn and ready to spring.

A woman clad in blood red cape glides into the clearing, hands fluttering and the red mist coiling around her arms. Steve bares his teeth at her as she stops and raises her hands, palms up.

”I’m not here to hurt you,” she says.

”Why should I believe you?” Steve asks.

Her eyes are wide and pleading, a desperate wildness simmering underneath. ”Because you set me free.”

”If I remember correctly, you accused me of killing your brother.”

Her face twists with grief. ”Pietro was already gone. It was the Baron who trapped him and twisted me to his will. I thought—”

With a flash of light and a searing sound that leaves Tony’s ears ringing, a portal rips open right next to her. He blinks his eyes to clear them and sees Natasha, glorious in her fury, her hand raised in front of her like a claw as she pins the red witch to the ground with her magic. Her eyes are ablaze with green flames and her teeth bared as the other woman writhes on the ground, gasping for breath. All around them, the red mist slowly starts to dissipate.

”Natasha, wait!” Steve shouts and jumps in between the women.

”Why?” She growls. ”I know who she is. I’m not letting her hurt you. Any of you.”

The red mist is gone and from the periphery of his eye, Tony sees Master Coulson—Phil—and Clint stirring from their bedroll, confused and the slightest hint of red in their eyes already receding. Curious and drawn to the strange woman, Tony gets up and walks up to Steve, peeking at the scene from behind him.

The red witch notices him and whispers, ”You’re him.”

”What did you say?” Natasha snarls.

”Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Tony says. ”You can ease up a bit, Natasha.” He cocks his head at the witch. ”Um, who am I, exactly?”

”You’re the genius in the bottle,” the witch breathes out. ”You’re his Destiny.”

”I sort of figured that out alrea—”

”But you’re also—” she reaches out for him and then whimpers as Natasha tightens her hold. ”I’m not…going to…hurt him,” she forces out. ”The residual…magic—”

As if being called forth, Tony makes the decision for them as he steps forward, ignoring Steve’s strangled sound of alarm. He grips the witch’s outstretched hand and a strange hum fills his ears. The witch stares at him with wide eyes.

”It’s the same as in my pendant,” she says slowly. ”The same as in the jewel the Baron used.”

”That magic was tainted,” Steve growls.

”It was warped,” the witch says, almost dreamily. ”With cruel intentions. This…feels the same but not.”

Her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, somewhere under the hum. He swallows and shakes his head and lets go of the witch who blinks but doesn’t try to get away from Natasha’s hold.

He’d always known Obadiah had a dark side but tainted? Warped? Does that mean that he’s warped too? Wrong?

”Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Steve says in a low voice and wraps his arms around Tony. He sags against Steve, grateful for his support and bigger, warm frame.

Natasha gives the witch a long, considering look, then lets go of her and takes one step back. ”Tell me everything you know and then I’ll decide if I’ll let you live.”

* * *

It takes them a week to reach Triskelion. To Tony, it seems like they’re taking unnecessary turns back and forth but when he asks about it, Steve shrugs and Clint gives him a grin with too-sharp teeth and he decides to let it go. It might be because of the shielding or the safety precautions—whatever they might be—or just the fact that they’re bringing the Scarlet Witch—who’d rather be called Wanda—with them. She’s blindfolded and muted by Natasha’s magic but they’re taking no chances. Tony doesn’t really understand the fuss but since she’s supposed to be not only the second most powerful mage on the continent (after Natasha, of course) but also quite insane until very recently, he stays silent. Let the magic-wielders handle the magic, he’ll concentrate on other things.

Like how absolutely useless and weak he still feels. Steve keeps reminding him that he’s doing pretty well considering he’d spent three years trapped in a magic glass ball but he still feels slightly foolish being the only one riding. Blueberry is carrying all their gear and everyone else is walking. He’s been growing slowly stronger but he’s nowhere near the strength it takes to trek across uneven terrain for several days with minimal rest. But when they need to move quickly to avoid a pack of griffins Steve doesn’t take time to dispatch, he’s glad he’s not the one running for two hours straight. Even Darcy, with her ridiculously low neckline and ample bosom, is surprisingly light on her feed. When he asks about it, all he gets is a grin that’s almost feral and, well, he probably doesn’t need to know.

When the fortress finally looms in front of them, it looks…small. Decrepit. Definitely not like a stronghold for the last stand for the Continent. Tony turns to Natasha and meets her raised brow. He opens his mouth to retort and then decides better of it when she just inclines her head forward. He rolls his eyes and turns to the fortress again and—

It’s magnificent. It rises up from the seaside cliffs like it was grown from a living rock, an imposing castle with high walls and three towers that loom high above, looking over the sea.

”Gods,” he breathes out and hears Darcy’s echoing whisper behind him.

”Gentlemen, bard, welcome to Triskelion,” Natasha says and starts forward.

The closer they get to the fortress, the more intimidating it seems. The air around the structure seems to shimmer like the horizon on a hot day and it almost feels like it’s pressing in on around them. Tony feels the hairs in his neck stand up when they finally step into the Triskelion’s shadow and he lets out a definitely-not-a-gasp when Steve reaches up and places his hand on his thigh.

”Intimidating, eh?” He says with a slightly strained grin.

”It’s powerful,” Steve hums, squinting up at the walls reaching out for the sky. ”And I bet it’ll be even more so wheneverything’s ready.”

”Welcome, travellers, to the Triskelion,” growls a low voice and from within shadows, steps out a black-skinned man in a long, black cape and an eyepatch over his eye.

Natasha shakes her head. ”Always with the theatrics, Fury,” she says dryly, but she places her right hand with her fingers splayed over her heart and inclines her head. ”Well met.”

”Nick,” Phil says and greets him with the same gesture as Natasha.

”Pirate!” Clint exclaims and flashes his teeth.

Fury raises a brow and returns the slight bow. ”Phil, Menace,” he says. ”It’s been too long.” Clint opens his mouth and Fury raises a finger. ”Not that long, mind you.” He gives Wanda a narrow look and then shifts his attention to Steve. ”It’s been a while since I last worked with a Witcher,” he drawls. ”Curious to see how it goes.”

”Most likely well, unless you give me the reason to change it,” Steve answers calmly.

Fury snorts and shifts his gaze to Tony. Something brushes his mind and he mentally clamps down on it, refusing to give in to the slight urge to avert his eyes. Fury’s lips twitch and Tony feels like he just passed some kind of a test. He’s still glad when the man’s—sorcerer’s? _What_ even is he?—focus moves to Wanda.

”Ah,” he rumbles. ”The infamous Scarlet Witch. Are you an ally or a prisoner?”

Wanda squares her shoulders and glares at him. ”The Hydra killed my brother and trapped me in their sick mind games. I’d like to see them _burn.”_

”Sounds good enough for me,” Fury says and is about to turn around when his eyes catch Darcy, partially hidden behind Spot. He blinks and turns to give Natasha a flat look.

”Steve’s bard,” she says as she starts forward, and Steve doesn’t even bother correcting her. ”Just go with it.”

”What’s the situation?” Phil asks, falling in step beside Fury.

Fury shakes his head. ”Not as good as I hoped. Broklen has fallen.”

Phil stops on his tracks and looks at Fury, eyes wide. ”Maria?” He asks. Fury shakes his head and Phil closes his eyes for a short moment. ”I’m so sorry, my friend.”

”She fought hard and gave her people the chance to flee,” Fury says gruffly and starts forward. ”Her niece led the refugees here.”

”That’s Nick’s on-again off-again lover,” Clint says, quietly appearing to Spot’s left flank. ”Maria, Queen of Broklen.”

”And if Broklen has fallen…” Steve says. He doesn’t finish; he doesn’t need to.

While Broklen might not have been the biggest of kingdoms, it was widely considered as the brightest star of the nations. Led by queens that have elven blood in their veins and supporting an academy of scholars, philosophers, sorcerers, and generals. Tony had had high hopes attending the academy after Oxenfurt but he never had the chance. And now, he never would.

They slowly made their way into the fortress, emerging from under the high-arching portcullis to a bustling castleyard. Steve helps him down from Spot and with a couple of quiet words, hands her over to a stableboy named Harley before they start across the yard. They’re almost by the main entrance when someone shouts, ”Tones?”

Tony swirls around so fast he almost topples over because—that’s not possible. There’s only one who ever called him that and he’s— He’s steadied by Steve’s arm curling protectively around him and for a moment, it’s really hard to breathe.

”Tones?” A voice calls again and before his bewildered eyes, a familiar form slowly limps across the yard.

”Rhodey?” Tony whispers, incredulous. ”Is that really you?” He more feels than hears Steve’s growl resonating in his chest and he places his hand over Steve’s chest. ”Hey, it’s okay,” he says and gives him a wet smile. ”Remember when I told you I had no-one to reach out for? So, apparently, I was wrong.”

Rhodey is thin and when he finally gets to him, he’s shaking from exertion. Leaning heavily on his crutches, he gasps for breath and shakes his head with a wide grin. ”Tony, Tony, Tony. I thought I’d never see you again but I should’ve guessed that if someone could worm their way into the party Triskelion has been buzzing about for the past week, it would be you.”

”I thought you were dead,” Tony says.

”I tried it. Didn’t catch,” Rhodey says and nods at his legs. ”I won’t be fighting in the coming battle, though. But how about you? How— why are you with the Black Widow, Scarlet Witch, Hawkeye, and a Witcher?”

Covering his astonishment about Natasha and Clint’s aliases, Tony shrugs. ”Spent three years inside a glass bauble so, I guess that’s just keeping up with the weird.”

”What,” Rhodey says in a flat voice.

”It’s a weird world we’re in, Rhodey-bear,” he says. He feels Steve tense at the endearment and realizes that perhaps introductions are in order. ”Rhodey,” he says and turns slightly to look Steve in the eye. ”Meet Steve, my Witcher. Steve, this is Rhodey, the one who kept me safe and sane through my first year at Oxenfurt.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes and extends a hand at Steve. ”Sanity was perhaps a lost cause from the beginning, but I’m glad you have someone keeping you safe,” he says. ”It’s an honor to meet you, Master Witcher.”

Steve clasps his hand and if the slight grimace on Rhodey’s face is anything to go by, the grip is on the tight side. ”Glad to know someone was looking after Tony before I came along,” he says. ”We should go, they’re waiting for us.”

”Yeah, sure,” Tony says and steps forward to give Rhodey a tight hug.

”A Witcher? Really?” Rhodey whispers. ”I always knew you liked them big but—”

”He’s amazing, in and out of bed,” Tony whispers back. ”Also, he can hear you.” As Rhodey rears back with a sputter, Tony gives him a shit-eating grin. ”See you later, Rhodey-bear!”

Steve side-eyes him as they make their way further into the fortress.

”He’s the only friend I’ve ever had,” Tony says quietly. ”I was completely alone before him and after he left.”

”But no more,” Steve says. ”You never have to be alone anymore.”

It sounds like an oath.

* * *

Triskelion has been in almost full operational capacity for weeks. The Shield, the secret network Phil talked about, has been channeling supplies for several years now and gathering information, compiling and comparing notes, trying to decipher a clear timeline to follow. The journal Tony and Natasha snatched from Oxenfurt was the last piece of the puzzle and now, the planning is in full effect.

The fortress is a gorgeous example of extraordinary craftsmanship but there’s no chance to stop and marvel at the intricate way the curving archways and columns seem to be made from living stone. Steve nudges him forward with an arm around him and they enter a large room with a massive table in the center and a crowd of people around it. As they enter, Tony snatches a handful of dates from a side table. He’s starving but he has a feeling it’ll be some while before any of them has the chance of a proper meal.

”Phil and Clint will be in charge of the ground forces,” Fury is saying, pointing at the map covering the whole table. ”Natasha and I will plan and direct the magical defences with Wanda.”

”What?” Snaps a man with a haughty look on his face, a white streak in his hair, and wearing a red, even more dramatic cape than Fury. ”I thought we decided to keep her aside.”

Fury slowly pushes himself to his full height, raises a brow, and takes a lazy look around the room. ”Yes. I recognize the decision the Council had made but given that it was a stupid-ass decision, I’ve elected to ignore it.” He turns to the haughty man—Sorcerer?—and says in a low, almost purring voice. ”I’m well aware of who she is and what she’s capable of, Strange. But you would do well not to forget who I am and what I am capable of, either.”

Fury holds the other man’s gaze for a long time and the time in the room seems to stretch. Tony feels something in the air, a mounting pressure that comes from Fury and for a moment, he’s sure he sees a shadow of something… _immense_ behind the man. He has no idea of what’s going on—or what Fury even is, that was—but when Strange finally huffs, crosses his arms across his chest, and averts his eyes, Tony lets out a relieved breath.

”Miss Cho is in charge of the healers,” Fury continues like nothing had happened. ”She’s currently supervising a couple of dozen refugee kids in making potions and would probably appreciate the help if any of you can spare people. And—”

He’s cut short as the air reverberates like a thunder went off inside the fortress. Tony shakes his head and works his jaw to lessen the sudden ringing and popping in his ears and scrunches his nose at the smell of ozone that seems to come from nowhere.

”Ah,” Natasha says. ”Excellent. The Blaze is here.” She turns toward the door as it opens to admit five people in a diamond formation, all clad in blinding white. They’re led by a middle-aged man with dark hair and dark eyes, with a younger, light-haired man on the left and a young woman with white hair and mischievous eyes on the right, followed by another older man with suspicious, haunted eyes. In the middle, is Miles.

”Welcome to Triskelion, Peter, Pike, Peni, Noir, and Miles.” Natasha says, greeting each with a nod and sounding oddly formal. ”The Shield sees you and recognizes your presence in this place.”

All five incline their heads in perfect unison.

”You have rooms prepared at the top of the Red Tower,” she continues. ”If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

Without a word, all five turn and leave the room still in formation, leaving everyone in stupefied silence.

”Now I understand why Fury was adamant we wait for you,” Strange says slowly. ”You have a full Phoenix Blaze at your beck and call.”

”No, I don’t,” Natasha says coolly. ”I once saved a life and for that, they granted me a wish. This is me, using that wish.” She pauses and gives the room a very pointed look. ”The Blaze is a last resort, to be used only if all else fails.” Her eyes cut to Tony and a shiver travels down his spine at the weight of her words and he can’t help to let out a gust of breath as she turns away. ”So, we have ground forces and magic and healing. What else?”

”The fortress,” a young warrior woman with short, blond hair and red-and-blue armor says. ”A small force will stay behind and secure the building so that Strange’s team can concentrate on their work on the rip.”

”Oh please, Captain Danvers, Triskelion is more than well protected on her own—” a bald man starts, annoyed.

”Which is why I said a _small_ force, Jasper,” Captain Danvers interrupts with an amused tilt on her lips. ”But we have to plan for the unlikely, just to be safe.”

They keep sniping back and forth, while Tony takes it all in, the plans, the people, the atmosphere in the room. After some time, he shakes his head and says, ”Ammunition.” All eyes turn to him and he pulls himself to stand straight. ”You can’t rely on magic and swords alone. Give me a free range and I’ll—”

”So, now we’re taking orders from a Witcher’s pet?” Jasper sighs. ”What’s next, a singing competition?”

Tony cocks his head and smirks. ”You’re more than welcome to try your luck against Darcy but if you do, please sell tickets. On a more pressing matter, do you know how to create Wildfire?”

Sorcerer Strange snorts. ”Of course we do. It’s highly volatile, extremely dangerous to use, and impossible to stabilize.”

”Impossible? No, it was quite simple.” Tony gives the sorcerer a wide-eyed look and shrugs. ”Or what do I know? I’m just, how did you put it, ’a Witcher’s pet’.” He leans forward and gives the people around the table a cold, hard look. ”I might enjoy riding a Witcher more than I enjoy riding a horse but make no mistake, mage: I’m extremely good at blowing things up. So how about you keep your cloak on and let me do what I’m good at, okay?”

”Not that this pissing contest isn’t amusing,” Natasha says, cutting off Strange’s retort. ”Perhaps we should concentrate on the matter at hand?” She glares at them both and then taps a finger at the map. ”What do we know about the rip?”

”We can’t detect it yet,” a black-skinned man with a regal air and wearing a black doublet adorned with golden claws says. ”But the disturbance is there. My sister has been monitoring it for the past week and it’s getting stronger each day.” He places a gleaming black stone on the map on top of Triskelion and an illustration of the sky appears over the map. A little to the side of Triskelion hovers a sickly yellow, slowly spinning spiral.

”The timeline holds?” Fury asks.

The man nods. ”As it has from the beginning, although Shuri will be most pleased with the additional information the journal has given us.”

”Thank you, King T’Challa,” Fury says.

Tony’s thoughts screech to a halt. T’Challa…that can’t be, he thinks. King T’Challa was the leader of the lost night dryad race he’d read about when he was just a child, a mythical being who closed the borders of his realm hundreds of years ago. And now he’s here? He’s _real?_

How many of these people are supposed to be mere myths?

He’s jolted from his bewilderment as Steve says, ”I’ve sent a word, yes, and I hope they’ll be here. But there are only three of us left.”

Fury nods. ”Be it one or three, we’re lucky to have you,” he says. His eyes cut to Tony and then back to Steve. ”Your companion looks dead on his feet. Get some rest,” he says in a clear dismissal before turning back to face the table.

* * *

Their room is in the Blue Tower, the second highest but the sturdiest of the three. It’s not big but it’s comfortable with a fireplace, a desk by the window, and a big, four-poster bed. A tray with bread, cheese, and cured meats as well as a pitcher of watered wine is waiting on the desk and with a groan, Tony descends on it like the starving man he is. Their few belongings are in the room already: a couple of journals Tony wanted to bring with him and Spot’s saddle bags. A tub with hot water is waiting by the fireplace, an assortment of bathing salts and oils set on the floor.

”Do you want the first bath?” Steve asks as he takes off his armor and walks up to Tony.

”I want to bathe with you,” Tony mumbles around a full mouth. ”I just wanted to get something to eat first.”

”You know, you haven’t actually ridden me,” Steve murmurs, his breath tickling the side of Tony’s neck that sends delicious shivers down his skin. He’s a steady wall of warmth against his back and when he sneaks his arms around Tony and skims his hands under his shirt, Tony can’t help a moan.

”Not for the lack of wanting, my Witcher,” he says in a breathy voice. ”I just haven’t had the opportunity yet.”

Steve hums and nips at the side of his throat. ”No time as the present,” he says.

Tony abandons his food, turning around in Steve’s arms. ”What are you going to do about it, then?” He challenges with a small smile and lets out a laugh when his Witcher hooks his arms under his thighs and lifts him up. The casual show of strength never fails to make Tony breathless and this time is no exception. He claims Steve’s mouth in a searing kiss and buries his hands in his hair, enjoying the way the hands spasm and grip his thighs. He’ll have such beautiful bruises on his skin tomorrow, and he already loves it.

”Not that this isn’t enjoyable, we do need to bathe first,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips.

Steve grunts and walks him to the bathtub and gently lowers him down. They undress each other with small smiles and lingering touches, enjoying the chance to see each other naked for the first time in a week. The rushed journey from the portal to the fortress hadn’t been suitable for lovemaking and the most they’d managed was kissing and one hurried handjob Tony is pretty sure was courtesy by Natasha. So, to have this opportunity now…he’s more than willing.

The tub is big enough for both of them to lean back and stretch their legs and for some while, they do just that. Tony leans back against Steve’s chest with a sigh and rests his head on his Witcher’s shoulder. Steve’s arms circle him and hold him close and he draws idle patterns on Steve’s forearm with his right hand and reaches out to hold Steve’s hand with his left.

”This is nice,” Steve murmurs.

Tony doesn’t say anything, just hums and breathes.

When the water starts to cool down a bit, he sits up to pick up a loofah and selects a soap with a mild herbal scent. Steve washes him first and when he’s done, Tony turns around. Straddling Steve, he washes him ever so gently, brushing his skin, tracking each scar with tenderness. He can sense Steve’s eyes on him the whole time and feel him growing steadily harder. It’s a delicious feeling and it feeds in on his own arousal.

When it’s time to wash his hair, Tony raises to his knees and pours water on Steve’s head with a ladle as he tilts his head back. He can’t help but press a kiss on his throat and hums at the low groan he gets as a reward. Steve’s hands trail his thighs up and end up on his ass, fingers splayed, gripping. It’s a tantalising, teasing dance they do; Tony washing and rinsing Steve’s hair, leaning against his chest as he massages his scalp and Steve kneading his buttocks, his fingers trailing his crackevery now and then.

They’re both breathing hard when Tony sets the ladle aside and stays standing on his knees. His cock is hard and throbbing, rubbing gently against Steve’s chest and he bites his lip, barely keeping himself from grinding fully down. Instead, he lets some of his weight fall back on Steve’s hold and swallows as his grip feels to almost stretch his cheeks apart. He takes the loofah and adds just the slightest amount of soap in it and reaches down to wash himself. It feels naked and weirdly dirty but when he glances at Steve, there’s nothing but barely contained anticipation and hunger in his eyes. He leans a bit more down and as Steve’s hands stretch him a bit more, inserts a finger to clean himself up properly. It doesn’t take long but staring at Steve, it feels like _ages._

”Okay,” he says, dropping the loofah on the floor beside the tub.

That’s all Steve needs. He helps Tony up first and then stands up himself, looking like a god from the old hymns Tony had been forced to memorize a lifetime ago. Tony would feel insecure but he doesn’t have time for it because Steve kisses him like a man starving and then promptly sweeps him up in a bridal carry. Tony lets out a breathless laugh that turns into a moan as Steve lowers him on the bed and then descends on his body, kissing every inch of him and leaving him a panting mess.

”Stop, stop,” Tony croaks and palms Steve’s head haphazardly. ”If you keep that up, I’m gonna come, and what’s the fun in that?”

Steve raises his head from Tony’s chest and he shivers as the cool air hits his wet nipples. ”I could see a lot of fun in that,” he points out.

Tony snorts. ”I don’t know if you Witchers can come half a dozen times a night but I’m a mere human, so show me some mercy.”

”Not a half,” Steve says as he lays down beside Tony and skims his fingers along his side.

Tony stares at him for a moment. ”What?” He finally stammers. ”You mean—what?”

Steve gives him an amused look. ”More like a full dozen, but I’ve never bothered to count.”

”I—No. That’s just unfair,” he huffs, crossing his arms on his chest. He knows he looks ridiculous, pouting with his arms crossed and his cock jutting up but, honestly? Steve chuckles and, well, that’s just rude. He sits up and pushes Steve’s shoulder gently and Steve turns, laying on his back, expectant.

”I might need to do some experiments later,” Tony murmurs and leans down to kiss him, ”but I’ll settle for riding this time.” He straddles Steve, sitting down so that his cock is barely brushing his backside and hums as Steve’s hands immediately grip his sides. With a small smirk, he picks up the oil that had been strategically placed on the bed—most likely by courtesy of Natasha, again, uncorks it, and pours some on his fingers. He reaches behind himself and as his hand brushes Steve’s cock, he lets out a low sound not unlike a rumble and his grip gets tighter.

It’s not a very patient or thorough preparation but Tony has always had a slight size kink and they’re both teetering at the edge already. He pours a liberal amount of oil on Steve’s cock and then places it against his hole, breathes out, and gently presses down. The breach seems to take forever and when the head is finally inside him, he has to stop to ground himself because it’s already so much. Steve is trembling under him, his eyes wide and dark but he’s holding himself still, waiting for Tony.

Bit by bit, inch by an endless inch, he lowers himself down until he’s finally sitting fully down and Steve is inside him. Sweet heavens, Steve is inside him. It’s the fullest he’s ever felt and all he can do is gasp for breath as his body tries to get used to the sensations firing up in his every cell. He holds himself up by leaning on Steve’s chest with his both hands and on his hips, Steve’s hands are shaking.

Slowly, Tony straightens himself up and twitches as Steve grunts and his hands spasm. ”Oh, gods,” he whimpers as his mouth falls open.

”Tony? Is it too much?” Steve asks in a voice that sounds like he’s been chewing on gravel.

”It’s… _perfect,”_ he whispers and starts slowly rocking his hips.

In all honesty, that’s all he _can_ do. First, it’s been ages since his last time and they definitely weren’t as big as Steve and second, he’s still weak. But the slow rocking is more than enough for them both and it takes an embarrassingly—or perhaps complimentary short time for Steve to convulse and clutch Tony close as he comes with a groan. Tony swears he can feel him pulse and the mere idea feels almost unbearably erotic. He grips his own cock and jerks himself almost desperately, unable to hold back a hoarse yell as he comes over Steve’s chest, clamping down on him.

For quite some time, all he can do is catch his breath as his ears ring and his body swims in bliss. He sways slightly, suddenly tired and is about to slide off when— ”You’re still hard?” He asks when he realizes Steve is still firmly seated inside him.

Steve’s hands rub his flanks. ”I told you,” he says. ”Never bothered to count.”

Tony hangs his head for a moment and then grins. ”You wanna go again?”

* * *

An indeterminate time later, when he’s completely fucked out and Steve’s cradling him from behind with his nose in Tony’s hair and his hard cock still—again?—snugly inside him, the door to their room slams open.

”The wards have been triggered,” Clint says in a grim voice, completely ignoring their state. ”Hydra is on the move.”


	3. ...and Beyond

In it’s own way, the news about Hydra is almost a relief. The tension has been mounting long before their small party reached Triskelion, and their arrival only fed the fuels of anticipation and dread. And now the time to act is finally here.

It doesn’t take long for the Shield forces to get properly organized. Under Fury’s glare and Phil’s calm supervision, the troops quickly divide into groups, distributing weapons, ammunition, potion pouches, provisions, and lots of other stuff Tony doesn’t know about. He stands by the fortress’s wall, hugging himself in the cool early morning air, and watches the processions.

”He’ll be fine,” Rhodey says quietly from his side. Tony doesn’t understand how he managed to sneak up on him with his crutches and all but he doesn’t complain. ”Or, well, at least as fine as anyone can be in this situation.”

”Yeah,” he says without looking away from Steve. He’s almost a head taller than anyone else and it’s easy to follow him moving across the yard.

Tony already misses him and the troops haven’t even left the fortress yet.

Biting his lip, Tony scrunches his brow and blinks several times. He feels like he should be doing something, anything, but…he just can’t get up and leave. Not when this is the last time for a long, long time he’ll have his eyes on Steve.

Without a word, Rhodey clasps his shoulder and Tony nods, swallows, and places his hand over Rhodey’s.

He’s not a fool. He knows this war, this…clashing of powers greater than any of them could ever even imagine is going to kill a lot of people and devastate everyone who will be left mourning. There’s a high chance none of them will make it out alive. And he knows this feeling that presses at him from the inside like there’s a claw gripping his gut and slowly twisting it into knots. It’s not fear or anticipation, it’s the knowledge of…something.

Something is out there. He can almost _see_ it.

Rhodey’s hand grips him slightly harder before letting him go and Tony glances up to see Steve walking toward him.

”Steve,” Rhodey says.

”Rhodey,” Steve says back and nods. ”I trust you’ll keep an eye on him while I’m gone?”

Rhodey snorts. ”I learned a long time ago that keeping an eye on him takes a special kind of madness. Lucky for all of us, I happen to harbor exactly that.”

”Hey!” Tony says, indignant but his lips twitch. Rhodey barely raises a brow, claps him once more on the shoulder, and then leaves them alone.

Tony looks after him for a moment, then drops his gaze on the ground. When Steve takes a step forward and reaches out to hold his hands, Tony looks up into his bright, bright eyes.

”I need to go,” Steve says quietly.

”I know,” Tony answers. He closes his eyes and tips his head forward, leans his forehead against Steve’s. They stand there together, then Steve says, ”Please, don’t blow yourself up,” and Tony lets out a wet snort and kisses him right there and then, desperately. They cling to each other for another moment, almost like they’re trying to climb inside each other’s skin but the sharp whistle from Fury comes way too soon.

”I need to go,” Steve repeats in a whisper.

 _Try not to go where I can’t follow,_ Tony thinks but he doesn’t say it. It wouldn’t be fair for either of them.

”Listen up,” Fury says, standing at the high-arching doorway that frames him, making him even more imposing than he is. ”I’m not going to give you a speech. That’s not my style. But I am going to say this: You know why we’re here and you know what we’re going to do next. You are going out there to fight men and monsters while we here will fight against something that will scare the shit out of our worst nightmares.

”The small brooches you were handed are cloaking devices. They’ll shield you and cover you as long as you’re not acting like complete morons. So, watch your step, keep your campfires down, and whatever you do, don’t you fucking sing.” He takes a step aside and somehow melts into the shadows of the early morning, leaving the stage to Phil.

”We’ll head out as one,” Phil continues in that calm manner of his. ”When we reach Yarra, we’ll split into three groups: Clint will head to the coastline, my team will cross the river and move forward, and Steve will circle around to approach from their flank. We’ll keep in contact with each other and Triskelion but for security reasons, the contact will be minimal from our part.

”Each group will have a pairing mage here in the fortress to channel power and to keep tabs on our location so that when we engage, they can direct the magical defences where they’re needed.”

”Who will you be paired with?” Tony whispers to Steve.

”Wanda,” he murmurs. ”Natasha has worked with Clint before and Fury won’t pair with anyone else than Phil.”

”Is that—will you be safe?”

Steve shrugs. ”I’ve encountered her magic before so the contact should work. And since I’m a Witcher—”

”They thought you’d be able to withstand an unstable connection?” Tony hisses.

”No,” Steve says, something soft and fond in his eyes. ”Since I’m a Witcher, I’ve been subjected to all sorts of things, and I’d be able to adjust better. Clint’s a fae and his connection with Wanda would be likely to backfire. And frankly, I’d rather pick Wanda than Fury.”

”Really?” Tony says. ”I would’ve—”

”Excuse me, Master Witcher?” A young soldier interrupts. ”We’re moving out.”

Steve nods at her and takes a deep breath. ”Well,” he says to Tony.

”Yeah.”

Steve cups his face in his big, warm hands and just… _looks_ at him with such intensity it takes Tony’s breath away. And then he turns and walks after the young soldier to where Spot is waiting and then he mounts her and then the troops are moving and Steve is slowly getting farther and farther away from him and—

Tony clenches his hands into a fist and takes a deep breath.

It’s eerily silent, the magical brooches provided by the Wakandan night dryads already in action, dampening the sounds the hundreds of soldiers make.

He hears footsteps behind him and even without turning, he knows who it is.

”So…back in your lair, you told me I’m Steve’s Destiny,” Tony says softly. ”You never said if he’s mine.”

Natasha steps to stand beside him, sighs, and wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ”Why are you asking things you already know the answer to?” She asks.

He nods. ”Fair,” he says. ”Do you know—”

”Where your Destiny lies?” She interrupts. ”Yes and no. I can see it stretch in front of you. I know it will demand a lot from you, but what it is, I don’t know.”

”If you did, would you tell me?” He turns to look at her and when she merely raises a brow, he huffs and shakes his head. ”Right. Unnecessary questions.”

They stand and share comfortable silence for some time, watching the Shield troops file out of the fortress. Then he swallows and says, ”You’ll take care of him, right? I’m not asking, mind you, just stating the fact.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking away.

He feels the weight of her eyes on his back until he reaches the shadow of the fortress and slips inside.

* * *

With the troops gone, there isn’t much to do but to prepare and wait. Carol, the fierce warrior woman in charge of the fortress, organises regular patrols around Triskelion, coming up with plans upon plans upon plans for defending the fortress from the Hydra troops if need arises. Her generals are just as fierce as she is, all magnificent in their armored glory. In another situation, Tony would’ve been fascinated by them, eager to learn all about their customs and cultures but now, he just has to admire the warrior women from afar.

Natasha, Fury, and Wanda close themselves up on the top floor of the Yellow Tower only to look exhausted when they emerge after sunset. Tony isn’t sure what they are doing but since he actually doesn’t have an active death-wish, he keeps his questions to himself. So, to keep himself occupied (and stave off the dangerous boredom), he scours the fortress’s supplies and comes up with a delightful selection of ingredients to build bombs. And Wildfire. So much Wildfire. He buries himself into his work and tries to ignore the sense of impending doom slowly rising deep within him.

The night before the departure, after Clint had slammed in and out of their quarters, Steve had made love to him, so gentle it had brought tears in his eyes but he hadn’t been able to look away from Steve’s eyes, full of devotion. After, when Tony had been dozing off, Steve had asked him to stay safe, whispering the words into Tony’s skin so softly he barely heard them.

Now, watching the ever-expanding stash of stabilized Wildfire, he knows that ’safe’ no longer is an option.

He gnaws the cuticle of his left thumb and stares at the neat rows of the most volatile non-magical weapon known to the Continent. Something’s amiss and he can’t quite grasp what. Yes, fighting Hydra’s troops is important. Yes, the Shield army needs all the magical aid they can get both from the mages traveling with them and from the sorcerers still at the base. Yes, figuring out how to counteract the spell opening the rip is of utmost importance.

But what about the disturbance, the pre-rip already in place? It annoys and irritates him to no end but since there’s nothing he can do, especially while standing in the storage room, he leaves the storage, locking the door behind him, and almost collides with a regal, black-skinned woman with a bald head and power in her eyes.

”Oh, sorry! So sorry, I was just thinking about—You know what? It doesn’t matter,” he says.

The woman’s lip quirks. ”You are the genius,” she says. ”My king speaks highly of you.”

Tony’s eyes go wide. ”You’re a night dryad!” He exclaims and then groans. ”I mean, I should’ve realized. Your clothes are distinctive and I really should’ve recognized you as one of the Dora Milaje because all of your—” he waves his hand in an all-encompassing way, ”—your…well, you,” he finishes somewhat lamely, inwardly cringing at her raised brow. ”And—wait, what do you mean, your king speaks highly of me?”

”He wishes to hear more about your thoughts on the rip,” she says. ”I’m to escort you to him, if you’d be so kind and follow me.”

”Um,” Tony says, taking a glance at himself. He’s done nothing but work today—is it still today or is it tomorrow already?—but his clothes seem fine. Or, at least he can’t see any major rips or stains so he figures they’re alright. He glances up only to see the Dora Milaje already almost around the corner and hurries to catch up with her.

She takes him to the spacious parlour the Team Rip (as Tony has started calling them) holds as their office. As usual, Sorcerer Strange and King T’Challa stand on the opposite sides of the big table in the middle of the room, weaving bright strands of magic back and forth while other people occupy the smaller tables by the walls. The now-familiar shape of the spiral disturbance spins slowly, pulsing sickly yellow light.

”Is that thing getting bigger?” Tony says as he enters, heading straight to the table, cocking his head to take a better look.

”Yes,” Strange says curtly, his brows furrowed in concentration. His hands are as steady as ever but his breathing is more labored than Tony has so far ever witnessed. Tony narrows his eyes and peeks a look at King T’Challa who looks calm and at peace, only belied by the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

”Shit.”

”Quite,” Strange says dryly.

”It’s drawing power from both sides,” princess Shuri, King T’Challa’s little sister, says quietly from her station next to the wide windows overlooking the bay. ”The spell is gaining momentum and it’s getting harder and harder to keep the vortex from collapsing.” She points at her desk. ”I’m trying to keep up with the calculations but…” she shakes her head. ”It’s happening so fast.”

Tony moves to her side and runs her eyes through her notes. The mathematics are incredibly complex and, at some instances, manage to run away from him. But he understands enough to feel something cold grip his gut.

”The counter-spell isn’t going to be enough,” he murmurs. ”It was never going to be enough.”

”Explain,” King T’Challa says. Tony turns around and meets the king’s tired eyes.

”What you’re doing,” Tony says, twirling his finger at the table, ”is amazing. But it’s like adding salve to a pustule: it might help with the burn for a while but if the pustule isn’t dealt with, it will burst. And the things that are out there, waiting to get in here?” He shakes his head. ”A spell won’t help.”

”And how do you know that?” Strange asks.

Tony is pretty sure he doesn’t mean to come off as an arrogant asshole but he just can’t help it. He rubs a hand across his face and lets out a huff. ”With the threat of sounding like a madman, because I can hear them. Not the entities but the ones guiding them. And…I can’t explain it. It just feels like…like they’re guiding whatever is trying to pass through. They’re not trying to open the door per se, they’re helping Them to find the door.”

”So, it’s like a beacon?” A man with curly hair and timid demeanor says from beside Strange.

”Yes and no. It’s…” Tony snaps his fingers, trying to find a way to convey what he _feels_ is right. ”The spell the Hydra is weaving from this side is like a beacon but it’s not light. It’s like a passage that worms its way through the veil and leaves behind a trail They can follow. Shutting down the beacon won’t help because the trail is already there.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence and then King T’Challa asks, ”Do you mean that our work here is irrelevant? Futile?”

Tony shakes his head emphatically. ”Absolutely not. Disturbing the spell and shutting down the beacon _is_ important. But it won’t stop Them from crossing over because the path, however narrow, is already there.”

”So, what? We keep on working and hope for the best?” Shuri asks.

Tony turns to her and opens his mouth so say…he isn’t sure what when Sorcerer Strange lets out a hum. ”You have a plan, don’t you?” It’s not really a question but a statement and Tony averts his eyes in front of Strange’s sharp gaze.

”I…have an idea,” he allows.

* * *

_Back when Wanda walked into their camp and into their lives, she told them what she’d learned while being under Baron von Strucker’s spell. She told them of the dark rites the Baron conducted in his castle, of the strange lights she saw seeping under the door of his study like some strange liquid. She told of the way the Baron would chant spells that made her skin crawl and her head heavy and her dreams dark and obscure._

_She told of the nightmares, of the terrible shapes she saw in the shadows._

_”They are The Old Ones,” she whispered, staring into the flames of their campfire. ”They live in the Beyond. They care nothing of us whom They deem as lesser races. We are like specks of dust under Their boots, if They even deemed it necessary to understand the concept of dust._

_”They have ruined Their own world and are always eager to consume new ones. They tried to enter once before but they were thwarted.”_

_”The Cataclysm,” Tony muttered._

_”Yes,” Wanda said, turning her feverish eyes to him. ”It happened because They tried to pass through to this world. They failed.”_

_”Not completely,” Natasha pointed out._

_”No, not completely,” Wanda agreed. ”But They managed to push through an essence of Themselves, cloaked in the magic that bled from the other side of the Veil. That essence bade its time, slowly familiarising itself with our world, always working towards the time when They would cross over and end everything.”_

_”Wait. If They’re like gods, why did they fail?” Darcy asked._

_”Because they lacked a compass,” Wanda said and squeezed her eyes closed. ”And now, They have one.”_

* * *

Steve narrows his eyes and takes a look at the sky. It’s almost unnaturally calm, like the very nature is holding her breath. The air is clear and crisp but holds no joy. Not with knowing what lies ahead.

”Creepy, right?” Clint mutters under his breath. ”I’d like to make an official statement of hating this.”

”Your statement was noted and subsequently ignored last time an hour ago,” Phil says mildly.

”Well, I’d like to file a complaint.”

”Only if you file it with your official mission report,” Phil says. His face is as calm as usual but his eyes twinkle and there’s an undercurrent of fondness in his voice.

Their easy banter makes Steve miss Tony like an ache in the middle of his chest and he rubs his sternum absently. It feels odd, being this attached to someone he’s known only for a couple of weeks but to him, it feels…longer. Like something deep within him had recognized Tony as a missing piece of himself and finally settled and now, being away from him, is a slowly building agony.

”I’m not going to say you’ll be fine,” Phil says softly, shooting a look at him from the corner of his eye. ”But it gets…bearable over time.”

Steve nods, staring at the braids on Spot’s mane. They’ve started unraveling somewhat but they’ve been holding for a surprisingly long time, considering Darcy had braided them even before they’d reached Natasha’s house.

Clint snorts. ”He’ll probably be safer than we, considering the murder of sorcerers in the keep. That’s what I’m calling them now, by the way. A murder of sorcerers because crows and capes and stink eyes,” he says and adds, ”Caw caw—”

”Yes, thank you Clint,” Phil interrupts, rolling his eyes.

Steve knows they’re just trying to lift his spirit but… It’s not that he isn’t grateful, it’s more like he can feel the peculiar pressure somewhere in the back of his mind. It’s not unlike the pull of Destiny in his chest that led him to Tony but this time, it’s not leading him toward something. No, it’s letting him know it’s not done yet and that there’s something more, something _worse_ coming.

He can feel it and he hates it.

”How much further?” He asks to distract himself and his companions.

Phil quirks his brow but doesn’t call him out. ”A couple of hours. We should reach the the river by midday.”

”Should we stop?”

Phil purses his lips and takes a look at the troops. ”I think it would be good for the moral. Not for too long, though, I don’t think we have the luxury.”

Steve nods and spurs Spot ahead, leaving Phil and Clint behind to enjoy the time together before they each take their own route. He lets his horse trot forward in a easy gait until he reaches the three mages riding a short distance away. Skye, Kate, and Miss Potts were handpicked by Natasha and Fury, capable, cunning, and inventive young mages light on their feet. They’ve been practicing their connection to the fortress for weeks and now when the time to separate is at hand, Steve wants to check in on them.

”Everything alright?” He asks.

The mages share a look and then the youngest of them, Kate, shrugs and shoots him a grin. ”We’re just fine. About to embark on an insanely dangerous quest to thwart a horde of brainwashed soldiers from opening a portal to another dimension to unleash unnameable horrors, but other than that? Peachy.”

”Katie,” Miss Potts chides. She’s the oldest of them, a slender woman with noble features, light hair, and a demure way about her that hides the steel underneath.

”What?” Kate says. ”It’s true! We know we’re the cannon fodder here. Our job is to literally distract the Hydra troops so that Team Rip can work their magic and seal the tear in the Veil between worlds.”

”Ladies,” Skye snaps in a sharp tone. ”Concentrate. Fury is reaching out.”

They all fall silent with a vacant look in their eyes. Their horses keep on moving forward and while Steve isn’t sure he even _wants_ to know the training process that had led to this eerily synchronized communion, he’s glad it’s seamless. Apparently, using xenovoxes had been deemed too risky which has led to this: mages staying in telepathic contact with each other and the Triskelion, sharing information in real time.

When they separate, they will each be accompanied by one of the mages. Kate and Clint are old friends—something to do with Clint taking her under his wing after her father disowned her—and if the rumors are true, Skye is Phil’s Child Surprise. Miss Potts will accompany Steve and be linked with Wanda, something he’s looking forward to with slight trepidation. The Scarlet Witch has had the time to commune with Miss Potts only a couple of times, and none of which through a distance. Apparently, her sheer power should compensate with the lack of practice.

When they reach the river, the sun is high over their heads. They stop for a short moment to let the horses rest and drink their fill while the troops share a light lunch before separating into three groups. They work almost seamlessly but with grim intent, fully knowing this will be last time most of them will ever see each other alive.

”This is where we part,” Phil says, using King T’Challa’s brooch to broadcast his voice to everyone without making too much noise. ”Shortly, we’ll reach the stage set for the Battle for the Continent. We know why we’re here. We know what we need to do. We’re the guards. We’re the ones who stand in the shadows so that the rest of the world can stay in the light. We’re the Shield.” He whispers a short blessing in Elder and it brushes over the troops like a gentle caress of a soft wind and…that’s it.

Phil nods at Steve and Clint and they step closer to grip each other’s shoulders. The mages reach out to twine their hands together so that they form a triangle within a triangle, and a short moment later, Steve feels the now-familiar brush of magic in his mind. The connection complete, the mages exchange a few last, soft words before retreating to their horses. Clint lets out a soft sound, grips Phil’s lapels and _yanks_ him into a kiss and Steve averts his eyes to give them a semblance of privacy.

”Until we meet again,” Phil says and touches his forehead against his lover’s with his eyes closed. ”And you too, Witcher.”

”Until we meet again,” Steve echoes, inclines his head to the both, and turns Spot around, knowing Miss Potts will follow in his wake.

He’s glad the troops he’s leading know what they’re doing. The sense of doom hangs heavy in his mind and he’s not in a mood for rousing speeches. They move forward at a steady pace, veering off from the path route taken to reach the river. At times he senses Miss Potts watching him but he’s glad she doesn’t feel the need to talk, at least not now.

They stop for a short moment at sunset and then push forward. They eat up the distance between the river and their destination, as the moon hangs heavy and full over them, lighting their way and the night dryad’s magic keeps their progression silent.

As his group has the most distance to cover, they are the ones with stamina. Clint’s group is the stealthiest, sneaking in front of the Hydra, and Phil’s group will be the blunt instrument, hitting heaviest straight to the flank of the enemy, distracting them for long enough so that Clint and Steve have the chance to jump in. Together they can hopefully crush the majority of the Hydra army and to distract their sorcerers. Too bad they haven’t had the chance to infiltrate the troops to learn more about their plans. As far as the Shield is aware, Hydra’s plan is and has been to plow their way through the continent to reach the Skellige coast and the old Rip site, secure their position, and then… Steve isn’t sure what. If the Old Ones are about to enter this world, will the Hydra offer themselves as a sacrifice? Are they to be the first course in feeding the unnameable horrors, to give Them power to devour the Continent?

”You’re brooding quite loudly,” Miss Potts says. Her voice is soft, moderated low so that only Steve can hear her.

He sighs. ”Just wondering how all this will play out. What are they trying to achieve? What do they think happens if they manage to rip the Veil completely open?”

She’s silent for a moment and then says, ”Fanatics are rarely in need of solid logic. They find their reasoning in the ramblings of madmen and in the promise of glory and power, in this life or the next.”

He huffs. ”Monsters I get. People, though… they’re just crazy.”

Miss Potts tilts her head and gives him a wry smile. ”Do remember that you and I have something they don’t and it makes all the difference.” He raises a brow and she says, ”Knowledge, dear Witcher. We have knowledge. Ignorant people fear things they don’t understand. And fear leads to darkness.”

”Do you really think that with proper education all of this could’ve been avoided? Because I don’t.”

She purses her lips. ”Not all,” she amends. ”There have and will always be people who crave power and who wish to intimidate people into submission. But education gives people the tools to look at things properly and to think every outrageous claim through. Knowledge chips away lies and subterfuge, until truth remains.”

”And what if the truth is out there?” Steve asks, pointing at the clear sky. ”And it’s even more terrifying than any fairytale people ever tell their children?”

”That’s where we come in,” she says softly.

Steve turns to look at her. She’s riding with her back straight and her head high, eyes clear and calm. ”I can’t say I’m glad to be here but I am glad you are here with me, Miss Potts,” he says after some time.

”Likewise, dear Witcher,” she says. ”And you really should call me Pepper.”

* * *

It’s impossible to miss the route Hydra has taken. It crosses the planes in front of them like a wound, slashed across the land. They stop at the edge of a small forest to rest and water their horses. Steve takes the time to walk among the troops, checking in on his warriors, nodding at people when they meet his eyes. While some flinch and avert their eyes, most nod back and offer him a tired smile.

After stretching his legs, he makes his way to the edge of the woods where Pepper stands staring into the distance with a small frown. He isn’t sure if she’s communing with her sisters or the fortress so he stops a couple of feet away to wait.

”They’re behind that small hill,” Pepper says after a moment. ”And there’s…something…” her voice trails away, troubled.

”We probably should—” Steve starts and then nearly doubles over when a searing pain slashes through his temples. ”Fuck,” he snarls. ”What—”

_”STEVE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”_

”Wanda?” He says aloud, bewildered.

”They weren’t supposed to contact us yet,” Pepper says, eyes wide. ”Is something— Are they alright?”

 _”STEVE, PLEASE ANSWER ME IN YOUR MIND IF YOU CAN HEAR ME,”_ Wanda repeats.

Her voice tears through his head like a harpy scream and he grits his teeth as he thinks, _Yes, I can hear you. Could you tone it down before my brain leaks out through my ears?_

For a moment, nothing. Then, _”I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t sure if you could hear me and I overdid it.”_

He sighs and rubs his temples, then startles when Pepper reaches out to hold her fingers lightly on his forehead. He gives her a relieved smile as the pain slowly leeches away and when she raises a questioning brow, he nods slightly, giving her permission to listen in.

 _It’s fine,_ he thinks. _Just…no need to shout. Is everything alright? Pepper said you weren’t supposed to reach out yet._

 _”The Triskelion is secure and safe,”_ Wanda replies, _”The disturbance is getting unstable. Strange and T’Challa think it won’t be long until the Rip breaks open.”_

 _Which is to be expected,_ Steve points out.

_”Yes. But the worrying thing is, it’s unraveling much faster than they expected. It’s almost like—”_

_”Something’s helping them on this side,”_ Pepper says. Her voice is gentle in his mind, barely an intrusion after Wanda’s brutal entrance. _”I can feel it.”_

If Wanda is surprised to hear her voice, she doesn’t let it on. _”A moment, I’ll relay that.”_ She falls silent for a moment and Steve uses the chance to take a couple of deep, centering breaths.

”Skye and Kate can feel it too,” Pepper says quietly. ”Something’s—”

 _”Steve? Pepper?”_ Wanda sounds out of breath. _”It seems the Hydra has a…guide on this side of the Veil. It’s of utmost importance that we kill them.”_

 _But…how?_ Steve asks. _If that guide wields whatever small part of the Old Ones, is there anything we can do to them?_

 _”We only need to kill the vessel,”_ Wanda says. _”The rest will be taken care of.”_

The connection ends, leaving Steve reeling. He blinks to get the small dark spots out of his eyes and shakes his head sharply. He feels like that one time he and Buck got drunk on Phillips’s stash of white gull and while the memory itself is bittersweet and fond, the feeling it leaves behind isn’t what he wants to deal with right now.

”Kill the vessel?” He says aloud.

Pepper presses her lips together in a tight line. ”I assume that the essence can’t function properly unless it has a vessel. Killing that vessel would render the guide inoperable, at least for a while, I believe.”

He sighs. ”Right. I’ll tell the troops we’re moving on, you contact your sisters if you need to.”

As he turns to go, he misses the sad look in Pepper’s eyes.

* * *

It’s hard to ambush anyone when moving on wide planes of grass, but King T’Challa’s magic helps keep their progress from raising clouds of dust and the ground from rumbling. But it doesn’t cloak them in the bright daylight and after confirming via Pepper that both Phil and Clint are almost in position, Steve decides to charge. If they stay back and do nothing, Hydra will only have the time and opportunity to regroup and strategize.

The fight is brutal. It’s obvious that the Hydra knows they have nothing to live for and their only remaining purpose in life is to die in a glorious battle. It’s been decades since Steve last really fought humans but he soon realizes it’s not that different from fighting monsters. Yes, monsters have strength and abilities humans usually don’t but Hydra has either fed their troops potions or they’re just that eager to die because they _swarm_ over him, screeching like banshees and, when relieved of their swords, they keep attacking their enemies with tooth and nail.

After some time—he doesn’t know how long—he hears commotion from the side and soon after, another from straight ahead. _Phil and Clint are here,_ he thinks to Wanda. _Good._ He isn’t sure if she can hear him or if her concentration is in channeling her power into Pepper. They’d agreed on the mages staying at the edges of the fighting if possible but he knows better than trying to order the three away from where they’ve decided to be.

The fight goes on and Steve loses his sense of time. He isn’t sure where exactly the vessel they’re supposed to kill is but he figures that plowing through the Hydra army will be as good a strategy as any. Sooner or later, one of their groups will end up where the mysterious person is, but until that happens, he has work to do.

He slips slightly and then grunts as something hits his shoulder _hard_. He whirls around with a snarl and sees Stane just as he fires another crossbow bolt straight at him. He flicks it away with his sword but as he does, he realizes the weapon already shot yet another arrow without reloading. He desperately tries to deflect but he knows he won’t make it. He has time for a split moment of regret before the arrow slams through his throat—except that it doesn’t. He feels the impact of a _Quen_ slamming to place and Stane flies back, hit by an _Aard._

”The fuck are you standing around, Stevie?” Buck yells as he yanks him into a short but tight hug. ”You can’t keep on trusting we’ll save your ass every time you end up in a fight.”

”Oh, fuck you,” Steve grits out and exhales sharply as Dugan removes the arrow from his shoulder.

”Doesn’t seem to be poisoned,” Dugan drawls. ”Shame. You won’t get them pretty lines on your shoulder.” He rummages a potion from his belt and hands it over to Steve. ”Drink up. We have work to do.”

”How did you know where to find me?” Steve asks as he yanks the cork off and spits it on the ground.

Buck shrugs and punches a Hydra warrior so hard her head snaps back with a crack and she drops to the ground, dead. ”Got your letter. Figured we’d attend the ball.”

Steve snorts and lifts the bottle to his lips, raises his head as he downs it all and—

A bright flame shoots up from the direction of the Triskelion. It’s more than just a bomb; it has intent and power he’s never seen in a mere bomb before.

”What the fuck is that?” Buck says.

The sense of impending doom in the back of Steve’s mind pushes forward, lodges itself into the exact same place the pull to his Destiny, to Tony, had been. ”No,” he whispers as he watches the bright ball of flame grow and turn brighter as it gains power and velocity as it heads straight to the slowly opening Rip above the sea.

”No!” He yells—

—And then the sky explodes.

It feels like they’re being ripped apart and squeezed into a tiny hole at the same time. Multicolored, pulsing light throbs from the sky like a morbid, beating heart and it presses down on them, grinding them to the earth. The vortex above them convulses into a writhing mass of…things; of wrongness and evil and something slithering through and reaching down to them. The ground trembles like the very earth is trying to fight back, rejecting whatever is trying to push through.

A searing, intense pain tears across Steve’s chest. It splits him open and he can’t help glancing down, fully expecting to see an unseen force ripping his heart out. But his armor looks as it always does, covered in blood and mud. But he knows it’s about Tony. He lifts his head to look at the sky but he can’t because something’s holding him back—some _one_ is holding him back and all he hears is low, guttural chanting and the color is seeping into his brain and it hurts and Tony and death and—

”—fuck’s sake, keep your head down!” Someone yells at his face, gripping Steve by his ears so hard it brings tears in his eyes. ”Don’t look up, Steve, don’t it’s madness, look at me—!”

He blinks and blinks and sees Buck in front of him, eyes wide and wild, blood trickling down his temple.

”What the hell—” Steve begins and takes a look around.

All around them, the Hydra soldiers are writhing on the ground like mindless animals, frothing at the mouths and clawing at their own faces and at each other. Steve uses Buck’s solid frame to steady himself as the three Witchers share a bewildered look. Here and there, Shield warriors stand up and take stock of the field of madness, trying to understand what’s happening without looking up.

 _”Don’t look up. Stay quiet. Listen to me,”_ their brooches broadcast in Phil’s calm voice. _”Keep your heads down. Don’t look up. Keep your eyes down. Listen to me. Stay silent. Don’t look up—”_

The calm lasts only a short moment and then the sky reverberates with another explosion. This time, the pain in Steve’s chest blooms for a split second and then it’s gone, leaving nothing behind but an aching void. He screams but his voice drowns under the sea of mindless sound from the Hydra troops. Next to them, one Hydra soldier staggers to their feet and lurches toward the nearest Shield warrior and rips his throat out with their teeth. All around them, other Hydra soldiers do the same. They advance on the Shield, armed with nothing but their teeth and nails, tearing into everything and everyone in their path.

Steve gives in to the white-hot, grief-fuelled rage building inside his head. He swings his sword, sending blood, limbs, and guts flying with a fixed snarl on his face. At some point he senses a brother on his side and some time later another, and then he isn’t aware of anything but ending every last one of the abominations swarming the field. Because where there was purpose, there is now void. Where was the promise of brown eyes and soft lips, is now a gaping maw of loss and he can’t—he can’t—he can’t—

He’s yanked back to reality when Buck lets out a scream and falters. Steve whirls around and sees three Hydra soldiers ripping into Buck’s arm. How they do that through a Witcher’s armor, he has no fucking clue. He snarls and decapitates one soldier while Dugan smashes the other’s head in and Buck sticks his sword through the third’s mouth and uses it as a lever to get their—its?—teeth out of his forearm. It takes Steve and Dugan’s combined strength to rip the jaws of the decapitated head open to get it off from Buck and by the time they manage, they’re nearly swarmed again. Steve’s nearly thrown to the ground when the earth rumbles again but he keeps his balance, facing the next wave of insane soldiers. His lungs are on fire and his muscles ache but he pushes himself to stand up and face the enemy.

But as the soldiers charge, Steve hears a cry and the ground rises up to meet them. He loses his balance and falls, sure that this is the day he dies.

 _”Get back!”_ A voice booms in his ear and a split moment later, he sees sharp, small metal arrows shoot past him. They bury themselves into the Hydra soldiers and tear them apart from inside out, leaving behind broken heaps of flesh and bone.

And then, it’s quiet.

Panting, Steve slowly pushes himself up and looks at the field of death and devastation. Around him, other Shield men and women stand up as well, looking around, somewhat lost and a lot bewildered.

”…Steve?”

He turns around to see Buck sway on his feet and then he folds, falls on his knees and then slowly keels over. ”Buck!” He cries out and rushes to his side. His heart’s still beating, slow and sluggish even for a Witcher and he’s white and clammy.

”Move aside,” Pepper snaps as she kneels beside Buck. She closes her eyes and hovers her hand over Buck’s torn arm. ”I was afraid of this,” she sighs with a grimace. ”If he was human, he’d be dead by now.”

”Poison?” Dugan rasps. He looks as exhausted as Steve feels.

Pepper nods. ”I…I don’t think I can save his arm. But I can save his life.”

”What is a Witcher without his ability to fight?” Steve mutters.

”A lot of things,” Pepper says calmly. ”Alive, for starters.”

Steve clenches his jaw and refuses to meet Dugan’s eyes. ”Do it,” he finally says. ”There’s so few of us left that I’d rather have him without his arm than not at all.”

”Hold him down,” Pepper orders and _rips_ the armor off from Buck’s left arm.

Steve isn’t sure how she does it but he doesn’t really care because the whole of Buck’s arm is greenish-black. It looks like something’s _alive_ under the skin, writhing around like something looking for a way in. It makes his stomach turn but Steve grits his teeth and holds Buck’s torso. Pepper procures a pale, thin dagger from somewhere, draws a finger along the sharp edge, and then cuts into Buck’s arm just above his elbow, severing the blackened forearm in one, clean stroke. Buck lets out a guttural sound and thrashes against their hold but he’s weak, weaker than he should be for a Witcher, and Steve and Dugan have no problem keeping him still.

Pepper mutters softly under her breath as she _draws_ something out of the sluggishly bleeding stump and flings it away from them to Kate who shoots it with more of those small metal arrows.

”I think I got everything out,” Pepper says. Her hands tremble as her magic slowly knits the gaping wound together, leaving behind an angry red stump. ”There,” she says and sits clumsily back.

As Buck goes limp in their hold, Steve and Dugan slump on the ground as well, gulping in air and trying to get a sense of their bearings. The field is scarred and littered with broken bodies and a lot more blood than Steve has seen in a long while.

He glances at the sky. It’s clear again, with small puffs of clouds. It looks normal and it makes him unreasonably angry. What happened? Why did Tony fly into the sky in a ball of flame that could only be the Blaze.

Had Tony known even before Steve had taken off?

 _”Shield forces,”_ the combined voices of Fury, Natasha, and Wanda call out in his head and he closes his eyes. _”The Rip is closed. We won. It’s time to come home.”_

As he takes a tired look at the field around him, all Steve can think about is, _Won? At what cost?_

* * *

The journey back to Triskelion is significantly faster than the journey to the fields. Fury and Natasha open a wide portal just far enough from the carnage to spare the people waiting at the fortress and transport their troops to safety. Fury gives him an assessing glare and then says he’ll stay behind with Phil and Clint to ’oversee the godsdamned cleanup,’ as he puts it.

Steve is too tired and heartsick to care.

Buck hasn’t gained consciousness after his amputation and Dugan passed out moments before the portals were opened, completely burned out, and many of the others are even worse state. They limp and drag themselves through the portal and into the literally waiting arms of the people on the Triskelion site. The soldiers in critical condition are quickly admitted in the hospital rooms under Helen Cho’s supervision and Steve carries Buck himself, following the healers hauling Dugan. Strictly speaking, Dugan doesn’t _need_ to be in the hospital wing because his condition doesn’t require a healer but they deem it safer to have a familiar face waiting for Buck to wake up. Steve is of a half mind to collapse on the floor next to Buck’s bed but he doesn’t get a chance.

”Steve,” Natasha says, soft and soothing.

He doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to see the compassion and pity in her eyes. He’d rather stay here with his brothers than hear what he already knows: Tony is—

”He’s alive,” Natasha says and when he whirls around, she adds with a wry smile, ”Just to make it clear. I can _hear_ you spiralling.”

”Where—?” Steve says. His voice breaks and he tries again. ”Where is he?”

”In your room,” she says, turns, and beckons with her head. ”If you’re done here?”

”I—yes?”

”You can go, Witcher,” Helen Cho says as she walks briskly to check in on Buck. ”His arm was severed neatly and the stump looked good, all things considered. I’ll send for you when he wakes up.”

Steve thanks him and hurries after Natasha. He ignores the scorched blastmarks on the walls and the occasional blood spatter, telling the fortress didn’t escape quite unscathed. There will be time for tales later, right now he’s desperate to see Tony.

When they reach his and Tony’s room, Natasha stops him with a hand on his forearm. ”Remember, he’s alive and recuperating,” she says, looking him in the eye.

Steve nods and pushes the door open.

The first thing he sees is Wanda sitting on a chair, leaning forward, brushing Tony’s hair, and singing in a low voice something Steve vaguely remembers from his own childhood. She glances up when he enters, offers him a hesitant smile, and stands up.

”No change,” she says to Natasha. ”But his dreams are more restful now.”

Natasha nods. ”Thank you. Get some rest. Or if you don’t feel like it, Helen might need a hand.”

Wanda nods and slips out of the room, closing it softly behind her. Steve barely notices it, all his attention on the bed: Tony is curled on his left side with his right arm reaching out to Miles who’s lying on his right side and his left arm reaching out to Tony’s. Neither is wearing a shirt and their hands resting on a soft pillow, tightly entwined. Miles’s skin is as dark as ever but Tony’s… Steve’s breath catches.

The whole of Tony’s right side is burned. His hand is blistered red and raw, the pattern licking up from his wrist like flames, circling his arm and spreading from his shoulder down to his flank and up to his face. They touch the side of his mouth and curl up along his cheek all the way to his temple. They look painful but to Steve’s relief he doesn’t smell like he’s in pain.

”What happened?” He asks, sitting heavily down on the chair Wanda had vacated.

”The short version is that the spell T’Challa and Strange had been preparing wasn’t nearly enough,” Natasha says. ”It barely managed to distract the Old Ones but as they started forcing Themselves through, we knew we needed something…more. And that more was the bomb Tony built.”

Steve sits silent for a moment, counting Tony’s even breaths. Then he asks, softly, ”He was the vessel, wasn’t he?”

She lets out a sigh. ”He figured it out before we left my house.”

”Why didn’t he tell me?”

”That’s something you have to ask him when he wakes up,” she says. ”But let me ask this: if you knew you were marching to your death, would you have told him or would you rather enjoy the time you had?”

Steve works his throat and finally manages, ”He’s my Destiny. Why would she be so cruel? To grant me him and then take him away?”

Natasha steps next to him, cups his face in between her hands, and tilts his head up. ”My dear, stubborn Steve. He’s still your Destiny and he’s on his way back to you.” She kisses his forehead and shakes her head. ”Now, I’ll order you a bath and you’ll wash up and then get something to eat.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes her sentence. ”I don’t want to leave—”

”I know that,” she says and raises a brow. At that moment, there’s a knock on the door. ”Which is why I ordered it here.”

As he washes up behind a screen, she tells him the long story of what happened.

By the time the vortex collapsed in on itself and the rip finally tore open, Tony was ready. He already knew he would need to do something drastic to keep the world from ending and as the Old Ones started pushing through and Their madness leaked from the beyond, he knew it was time.

He already knew that shooting Wildfire at the opening rip from the fortress wouldn’t be enough. The bomb would need to be taken right next to the rip to be effective and to get it there would take incredible amount of power and perseverance. And for that, he needed the Blaze.

(”How very convenient you had summoned a Blaze, right?” Steve grumbles.

”Hush now,” Natasha soothes him.)

The hammock the Phoenixes flew up to the sky came from King T’Challa’s personal items, a cloak infused with magic and starlight. As the Blaze took to the sky, the hammock was loaded with Wildfire and Tony, holding the bomb. The closer they flew to the rip, the brighter the Blaze became until it was the fiery ball of flame Steve saw from afar and finally exploded. It took the combined effort of every mage in the Triskelion to shield the fortress from the ripples of sheer madness that poured from the sky. Tony’s bomb managed to wound and scare the Old Ones from the opening and as the backslash hit and the Blaze caught fire, the Phoenixes burned away the residual twisted magic keeping the rip open. And Tony along with it.

However, as the Blaze reformed and dropped from the sky, only two figures remained: Tony and Miles hurtled down from the heights and into the sea. It was Wanda whose magic surged out to them and kept them from drowning until the rescuers arrived.

”They were holding hands when we found them,” Natasha says, ”and they haven’t let go. There’s a reason they’re still connected.”

”So, now what?” Steve asks, stepping from behind the screen in clean breeches, drying his hair.

”Now, we wait.”

* * *

_There isn’t much you can do when you’re ripped apart from the inside out; when everything you are is remade and you no longer know who or what you are._

_There’s only so much you can do about the burning wrongness inside you, the kind that slithers around your brain and trickles down your spine, wraps slimy tentacles around your very being, and warps you into a caricature of yourself._

_Oh, you can certainly try. Try to keep going, try to nod and smile and say things and walk and talk and breathe but the thing inside you keeps gaining strength and it whispers in your ear and sometimes it’s so very hard to know if it’s you or…It talking._

_So, you decide to do something about it._

_You got to be tricky, though. The thing curling in a decaying heap in your mind knows things, it hears and feels and sees and you have to be clever and think about it without thinking about it. It’s hard but hey, that’s life. Good thing you already have experiences to draw from._

_Is this what it feels like to go insane?_

_What if—_

_No._

_Don’t think about it. Not that._

_This is real because it has to be real because if it isn’t, it’s worse._

_Mist like vaporised pus and voices that make you want to scream and stick needles in your eyes, and it would probably be really interesting if you weren’t scared shitless, seeing small shards of yourself explode into even smaller shards of yourself and they all smile and grin and they glow, Gods, they glow and—_

_But not your gods._

_Don’t think about gods. They’ll hear you._

_Walking, talking, eating, fucking, They’re bored, riding, laughing, They don’t care, portal, magic, curiosity, fortress, burning pulling in your chest, knowing, knowing, knowing, terrible curiosity, don’t tell Them don’t let Them know don’t don’t—_

_And then the hammock of fabric so soft it feels like clouds but it burns the thing inside you and it recoils, hissing and spitting. Feeling anything is a risk so you push down the fierce surge of satisfaction and just keep on thinking about something else than this. Instead, a woman with red hair. Instead, a woman in a red cape. Instead, beings so powerful and immense squeezed into something so small it makes no sense but it doesn’t have to._

_Instead, the sky and the grass._

_Instead, the ache of missing someone so very dear._

_There’s a hammock and there are five living pillars of flame and there’s a pile of something that smells like danger and then there’s home, home, familiar, ”Yessss…” It crows inside you, reaching out for the small clay jar like it’s what you’ve been missing all along and you crave it and loathe it and you know you can’t open it, not yet._

_And then—_

_And then…_

_…and then, colors, unimaginable swirls all around you as the world slides sideways and there’s nothing but the end of everything overhead and it’s all you’ve ever wanted and your worst nightmare. As the flames burn brighter and brighter, you finally yank open the stopper and the jar sings in your hand as you raise it up to the yawning maw of insanity reaching down from the space and It screams, They scream, you scream and scream and scream and you burst into flame inside the Blaze and it’s agony and bliss and it consumes you, Them, Us, no no no not like this it wasn’t supposed to end the door is gone and what now oh the world must burn—_

_—And then—_

_…and then, the flames are gone and you’re cold, so cold, plummeting down from the sky. The swirling madness is gone and it’s left a yawning void behind because you now know it was your Destiny and now, it’s no more. So, what now?_

_Someone’s keeping you tethered, someone’s gripping your hand and it hurts and it doesn’t and they don’t let go even when you hit the water and it punches all air out of your lungs. You’re sure you’re going to die but you don’t because you’re inside a bubble and then afloat and it doesn’t make any sense. You gasp and gasp for breath that isn’t there until it is and, with it, your chest swells. Air, blessed air, you can breathe, you inhale. Something rises in your chest, pushes the void away and makes room for itself until all you can feel is warmth that pulses like a second heartbeat. It’s pulling at you, calling out for you and you know you have to follow but you’re so tired and you just want to sleep…_

_In a moment…_

_You’ll wake up…_

_Any moment now…_

_”…Tony?”_

_Ah, right. That sounds familiar. Tony. To-ny. It tastes right, sharp and funny. It’s your name and the pull in your chest tugs at you._

_”Tony?”_

_Okay then—_

* * *

Tony gasps awake and starts coughing.

”Tony?”

He heaves and heaves and twists and—

”Fucking ow,” he croaks.

”Don’t move, you’re hurt.”

He turns his head just a bit, opens his right eye to peer at the shape hovering over him. Oh, right. Steve.

”Steve,” he says.

”Yeah,” Steve says. His eyes are bright and wide. He looks…scared?

”What’s wrong?”

Steve huffs. ”What’s wrong?” He parrots. ”Nothing much. World almost ended but it didn’t. And you almost died.”

”Oh, that,” Tony says and then promptly loses consciousness again.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, he’s hot and thirsty. He tries carefully shifting to his back but can’t move his right hand because even a slightest tug feels like it’s on fire. He lets out a whimper and scrunches his brow, fighting back nausea and dizziness.

”Don’t move,” Steve says softly. ”You’re hurt.”

”Yeah. Kinda figured that out,” he says in a hoarse voice and forces his breathing back to normal.

”Want some water?” Steve asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer but helps Tony gently up, just enough that he can drink without choking. Water feels heavenly in his parched throat and he drinks, greedily, and lets out a whine when Steve cruelly takes the cup away.

”Not too much,” Steve chides as he helps Tony to lie back down. ”It wouldn’t do you any good if you threw up.”

He stays silent for a moment with his eyes closed, taking in his surroundings and his body. Other than feeling like he was run over by an oxcart and then lit on fire, he’s pretty swell. At least for as long as he doesn’t breathe too deep or try to move.

”What’s with the handholding?” He asks to distract himself from the pain.

He hears something rustling, probably Steve shrugging his shoulders. ”Your guess is as good as mine. Natasha told me you were holding hands when they found you and since Miles hasn’t woken up yet…” his voice trails away.

”Huh,” Tony says. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he asks, ”So, what happened?”

When Steve doesn’t answer him, he forces his eye open and peers at the Witcher sitting in the chair by the bed. His face is grave and his eyes sharp and knowing and something in them makes Tony uncomfortable. He isn’t judging but perhaps slightly disappointed? But…why?

”Do you mean what happened on the battlefield or what happened in the sky?” Steve finally asks, his tone mild.

”Um—”

”Because I can tell you what happened on the battlefield,” Steve barrels on. ”We fought. It was ugly and insane, and a lot of people died in unimaginable ways. Buck and Dugan stopped by and saved my life, by the way. And then the sky lit up in such weird colors. Would you know anything about that?”

”Ah…”

”By all means, do share,” Steve says.

Tony swallows and averts his eyes, not quite managing to hold Steve’s heavy gaze. They lapse in an uncomfortable silence that stretches in the room, poking them. Tony gnaws at his lip, unsure of how to explain himself. Was it unfair? Fuck yes. Would he do it again? Without question. Would he still end up hurting Steve? Most likely yes.

But how do you measure something like that? How do you weigh pros and cons when it’s the survival of the whole world at stake? There was no other choice: Tony knew his role, he knew he was the only one who could seal the rip and even he couldn’t do it alone. No it was both the Blaze and Tony, combined with enough Wildfire to blow up Broklen and garnished with the nightmare fuel he’d been marinated in for three years. And yet…how is he supposed to explain all that to Steve? To tell him about the searing, burning conviction that drove him relentlessly forward until the very end. To paint him a picture of what lurked in his mind, and how he had to outsmart it lest they all perished. How?

”When I saw the firebolt shot across the sky,” Steve says quietly, breaking his spiralling thoughts. ”I knew it was you. I just knew. And all I could think of was how cruel Destiny was to grant us a couple of weeks only to tear us apart again.” He sighs and glances to the side, turning his profile at Tony. ”I went mad. I felt—the thread that bound me to you, it tore loose and I lost it.”

”I’m sorry,” Tony says and then swallows. ”Back at Natasha’s cottage—”

”I know,” Steve says.

”She said I’m your Destiny but not that you’re—”

”Tony,” Steve interrupts. ”I know.” Steve turns to look at him and lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. ”She told me my Destiny awaits me a decade before I found you. Destiny led me to Darcy and then to you and…” He shrugs. ”I’m just a Witcher. I was never meant for great things. You, on the other hand…”

”You’re not ’just’ anything,” Tony says hotly. ”Destiny can go fuck itself. I’m keeping you.”

”Well, that’s nice because I’m not giving up on you,” Steve snaps.

”Good!” Tony shoots back.

Steve sets his jaw. ”Good!”

They stare at each other for a moment and then Tony grins. Steve snorts back and shakes his head and…well, that’s that.

”Get in here,” Tony says, suddenly tired. ”Just…get in here. I miss you.”

Steve doesn’t object. He kicks off his boots and climbs on the bed, manoeuvring them around until he’s on his back and Tony lays partly on his chest. Moving hurts a lot but after they’re settled, Tony lets out a long sigh and feels like he can finally relax. Steve’s heartbeat is a familiar thrum under his cheek and the way he slowly rubs his thumb against Tony’s neck is almost hypnotising.

”Do you want to talk about it?” Steve murmurs against his hair.

Tony swallows. ”I…don’t know if I can,” he says slowly. He tries to think about it but it all feels slippery and _wrong_ and he jerks his head a bit, trying to evade the memory of the slithering _things_ inside his mind.

”Hey, hey,” Steve soothes. ”Just. I’m here. If you need me.”

”Okay,” Tony whispers. There’s a migraine brewing behind his eyes and he doesn’t want to think, he just wants to be here, with Steve.

”Go to sleep,” Steve whispers. ”I’m not going anywhere.”

Before drifting off, Tony mumbles, ”It changed. Now it’s you.” He’s off before he hears Steve’s reply.

* * *

It takes two more days for Miles to wake up. It would’ve been awkward and highly embarrassing if Tony’s body was functioning normally but as it is, he’s only able to drink water and nothing more. Natasha and Helen Cho check in on him daily and even Fury peeks in once, but none of them can say more than, ”It’s magic. We just have to wait for Miles.”

So, when the Phonenix’s eyes finally flutter open, Tony feels like a stone dropped from his chest.

”Hey kiddo,” he says even though he knows that despite appearances, Miles is probably centuries older than him. ”How are you feeling?”

Miles squints at him. He turns his head a bit and wiggles his fingers, linked with Tony’s. It feels weird, like someone was moving Tony’s fingers without his consent, and when Miles slowly extracts his hand from Tony’s hold, he shivers.

”Odd,” Miles says in a scratchy voice that sounds compressed, as if it’s somehow too big to his small body. ”Cold. Lonely.” His mouth shapes the words like they’re completely foreign which they probably are. Phoenixes use their mouths to eat, not to speak.

”I’m sorry about your Blaze,” Tony says.

Miles looks at him with his big, dark eyes and says nothing. Instead, he turns his head to take a look at the room, and then pushes himself to sit up. ”Careful—!” Tony says but apparently, there’s no need. Miles stands up without a problem and walks to the window, gazing up at the sky. He seems to have forgotten Tony’s presence which is both a relief and slightly annoying at the same time. Tony wonders if he should send for Natasha or someone when there’s a knock on the door.

”Yes?” Tony says.

The door opens to admit Fury himself. ”I see you’re both awake,” he says in that growly voice of his. ”Good.”

Miles doesn’t turn from the window.

Tony takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes himself to sit up. His right side still hurts like seven hells but it doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore. Thank Melitele for small mercies.

”There’s nothing I can say to compensate for your loss,” Fury says slowly. ”If there’s anything in my power that I can do for you, I’d be glad to do it.”

”Can you grow my wings back?” Miles asks. When Fury doesn’t answer, he lets out a small hum. ”I thought so. Thank you but I don’t want anything from you.”

Fury sends a glare at the back of his head, either for his answer or because he doesn’t bother turning but since it’s more than obvious that for Miles’s part the conversation is over, Fury gives a flat look at his feet and then glances at Tony before turning to leave.

”Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Tony says. ”If you could send Steve in, that would be awesome.” He gives Fury’s glare a shit-eating grin that drops when the man slams the door behind him.

After a beat of silence, he looks at Miles. ”So…you’ll never fly again?” He asks softly.

Miles sighs and finally turns to give Tony a sad look that is way too old for someone in such a young body. ”No. My Blaze is gone and I burned my wings up keeping you alive.”

Tony stares, then blinks several times. ”I—” he clears his throat. ”I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for your loss. Why would you—”

”We’re a dying race, Tony Stark,” Miles says. ”We knew we would end like this. In fire and flames. This time, our ashes gave life for something else than us and…” he shrugs. ”Life goes on.”

”But…why me?”

Miles gives him a long look, disturbingly piercing for a being in a small boy’s body. ”You mean, why you who was the vessel for unimaginable horrors and nearly destroyed the world?” He asks, raising a brow. ”Because.”

Tony frowns. ”That’s not an answer.”

”Why not? You endured years in a trapping globe, infusing your very being with eldritch magic and yet, you persisted. You didn’t succumb under Their control. You didn’t yield.” He cocks his head. ”That’s why.”

Tony averts his gaze, suddenly unable to hold Miles’s knowing look. ”But what about you?” He asks quietly, picking at a thread poking from his shirt.

”I don’t know. Maybe I’ll learn a new skill. Maybe I’ll go home with Natasha.” Tony sees him shrug from the corner of his eye. ”I’ll think of something.”

He gives Tony a last, long look and then takes his leave, just like that.

Tony is still staring at his hands with a frown when Steve enters.

”Tony?” He asks, kneeling in front of him. ”Are you okay?”

Tony raises his head and just… _looks._

”No,” he finally says. ”But I guess I will be.”

* * *

The world is broken.

There’s no other word to describe what’s left of the attempted invasion—because that’s what it was. An invasion. The lingering wisps of insanity sweep over the Continent like bleak wind, igniting bursts of madness every now and then and Shield has its hands full with the damage control. They dispatch small groups of people—warriors, healers, mages, diplomats—around the worst damaged areas and slowly start mending the devastation left behind. There will be work for decades to come; emotional and psychological trauma from encountering The Old Ones will carry for generations and their influence can probably never be completely erased. But it can be managed. Cauterized.

The world is broken but slowly, painfully, it starts picking itself up again.

With Broklen gone, Triskelion takes on the mantle for Sentinel duty over the Continent. Tony could bet his remaining sanity that Fury would rather stay in the shadows like the spider he is but since life isn’t fair, he can’t. He delegates as much power as he can to Phil and, surprisingly, Clint, and would probably try roping Natasha into governing if she didn’t coolly inform him that she would _not._

Tony would really like to know what she has over Fury.

It takes Tony several weeks to get up and moving almost like he used to but he knows he’ll never be as nimble as he was before. The scars on his right side slowly heal but they stay red like flames. He’s pretty sure they’ll stay red for the rest of his life but it doesn’t really bother him. Considering he carries the mark of The Old Ones in him, he sees it only fitting that he’ll carry the mark of the Blaze as well. Perhaps they’ll help negate each other’s effects.

Or perhaps he’s wishing too much.

As time goes by, wounds heal. Tony is glad to see that Buck’s missing arm didn’t throw him into a pit of endless despair like Dugan suspected and even with one arm, he’s a force to be reckoned with. As Steve and Dugan go on patrols, he stays behind, runs drills on the warriors recuperating from the battle, and one one, memorable occasion, even tries his luck against the general of Dora Milaje. He loses, of course, but it brings him to Princess Shuri’s attention. Tony has a feeling that camaraderie will brew either great things or massive havoc. He’s up to either.

He catches up properly with Rhodey, listens to the tales about the death of his parents and the devastation of his hometown. Tony teases him about his crush on the head of Triskelion elite guard, Carol, and Rhodey rolls his eyes at Tony’s heart eyes whenever Steve is near. It’s easy, and it’s warm, and it breaks his heart.

And then there’s Steve. Steve, whose location Tony can pinpoint with his eyes closed because the new, intense tether in his heart leads straight to his Witcher. Steve, who looks at him like he can’t believe Tony’s still there. Steve, who insists on being gentle until Tony grows frustrated and pins him to the bed with a snarl to have his way with him. Steve, who holds him when he wakes up in the dark of the night, screaming at the cold, warped tendrils of madness crawling down his spine.

The world is broken but so are they. They’ll heal and they’ll move on.

And they’ll remember.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for Shear Strength](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456034) by [KakushiMiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KakushiMiko/pseuds/KakushiMiko)
  * [A Witcher is Watching (2020 Cap-IM BB Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292636) by [kowaiyoukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai)




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